


rte. TZ 7 

RnnV .T g I v'-i 

Gopight'N?_XiiL_ 

CDF^GHT DEPOSIT. 






/ 



\ 

y: 











k 









* i 







4 


I 


f 

I 



w 


t 






« 




i 








« 


« 


I 




Two Indian Children 

of 

Long Ago 


BY 

FRANCES LILIAN TAYLOR 

n 

Principal Teachers’ Training School, Galesburg, Illinois 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

L. KATE DEAL 




BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY 

CHICAGO 




Copyright, 1920, by 
BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY 

ALL BIGHTS RESERVED 


31 1920 


©C!.A604809 








ConteMS 


■A 







PAGE 


The Fikst Americans 7 

The Wild-Rice Indians 13 

Stories and Story-Tellers 17 

Welcome to a Papoose 21 

The Indian Baby and Her Cradle 25 

White Cloud's First Ride 28 

Nokomis Tells a Story 34 

The Firefly Dance 37 

Swift Elk, the Indian Boy 40 

The Naming of Swift Elk 45 

Fire and the Fire Makers 49 

The Thunderers 56 

The Little People of the Forest 58 

Black Wolf Tells a Story 62 

The Race Between the Crane and the Humming 
Bird 67 

Hunting Wild Ducks 70 

A Brave Duck 77 

Summer Sports 


3 


4 


The Ball Game 85 

The Animals and the Birds Play Ball 89 

Gathering Wild Eice 94 

The Ant and the Katydid 100 

How Wild Rice Was Discovered 102 

Moving the Dolls" Camp 106 

Finding a War Feather 114 

The Lynx and the Hare 117 

How THE Animals Saved the Tribe 119 

Winter Evenings 125 

The Ground-Hog Dance » 131 

The Lucky Hunter 134 

How Sickness Came 140 

How Spring Conquered Winter 144 

The Gift of Corn 149 

The Magic Canoe ; 154 

The Happy Hunting Grounds 158 

About the Book 160 




I 


* 


4 











I 


THE FIRST AMERICANS 

We are proud of being Americans. But 
we must not forget that the Indians once 
owned all America, north and south and east 
and west. 

The Indians were the first Americans of 
whom we read. No people ever had a greater 
love for their land, and no race has ever taken 
more pleasure in out-of-door life. 

After Columbus found the New World, 
white men came from Europe to make their 
homes here. As time went on they drove the 
Indians farther and farther west and took 
away their hunting grounds. 

Let us try to imagine our country as it was 
when the Indians owned it. Can we picture 
our land without a house or a store or a rail- 
road? Can we think of great rivers with no 
cities on their banks and with no bridges on 
which to cross from one side to the other? 


7 


8 


Every boy we know likes to go camping. 
But who would be willing to set up a camp far 
away in the deep woods without taking with 
him tent or food or blankets'? 

Before trade with the white men began, 
the Indians found everything they needed in 
the wild land about them. They could make 
their own weapons and tools, their canoes and 
paddles, their houses and clothing, and even 
build a fire without matches. 

Your fathers leave home to earn money for 
your food and clothing. Your mothers see 
that your meals are cooked and that your 
clothes are bought or made. 

The Indians took care of their children in 
much the same way. During the hunting 
season the fathers and big brothers went away 
every morning to hunt. The men provided 
all the meat for their families, and all the 
skins for clothing and covers. 

When a deer or a bear was shot, the hunter 
brought it to the camp and threw it down. 


9 


His work for the day was done — the women 
could do the rest. 

And it , was wonderful to see what the 
wives and mothers could do with a big animal. 
Was there a wigwam in the tribe without 
food ? The meat was shared to the last mouth- 
ful. Was there an abundance? The meat was 
dried for long keeping. 

Did the son need more covers for his bed? 
A bear’s skin was finished like a fur rug for 
his comfort. Did the black-eyed daughter beg 
for a new dress? Her mother could make 
from the deerskin a soft garment beautifully 
trimmed with colored beads, stained quills, 
and fringes. 

But what did the Indians do when they 
could find no more game to shoot with their 
arrows? Why, they sent out scouts to select 
a better place to live, and the chief gave orders 
for every one to move. 

Down came the lodge poles. The trained 
dogs were called and loaded, and away they 


10 



all went. Just think of a whole village mov- 
ing and leaving nothing behind but the land! 

The Indians spent much time in feasting, 
dancing, and games. During the summer the 
men had little else to do, for they seldom 
hunted while the wild animals were caring 
for their young. 

Each tribe was ruled by a chief and a coun- 
cil of warriors. All their lands were held in 
common, and no one suffered want except 
when food was scarce for all. 


11 


Every boy was watched with interest by 
the whole village. His first walking was 
noticed, and his first suc- 
cess in hunting was often 
celebrated by a feast. 

When the corn was 
ripe, the Indians held one 
of the most important 
dances of the year to show 
their thanks to the Great 
Spirit for the gift of corn. 

In times of sickness, 
the medicine man came 
with rattle and drum to drive away the evil 
spirits that were believed to have caused 
the trouble. If the sick person grew worse, 
Indians, with their faces painted black, 
crowded the wigwam and more medicine men 
were called. 

They drummed harder and harder. They 
yelled and beat their rattles, thinking that 
they were helping the sick one to recover. 



12 


When anyone in the tribe died, the things 
he had eared for most were placed in his grave. 
There were toys for a little child, and weapons 
and blankets for a warrior. The favorite 
horse of a chief was often killed to be his com- 
panion on the journey to the land of spirits. 
Even food was carried to the burial place be- 
cause the trail was long that led to the Happy 
Hunting Hrounds. 

After many years, the early customs 
became greatly changed. To-day large num- 
bers of Indians are living in the white man’s 
way. Some are well educated and own houses, 
farms, and even automobiles. Their children 
are trained in government schools. There are 
writers among them whose books we like to 
read, and there are artists who paint inter- 
esting pictures of Indian life. 

During the great World War the Indians 
begged to join the army, and hundreds en- 
listed. Young men from many tribes were in 
France, and there were no braver soldiers. 


13 


THE WILD-RICE INDIANS 

Every boy and girl who studies geography 
can find the Great Lakes. In the states south 
and west there are hundreds of small lakes 
and rivers where wild rice grows in the shal- 
low water. 

During the early days of our country, 
different tribes of Indians gathered the wild 
rice for foodj and many battles were fought 
for the rice fields. 

From the birch trees of the forest the men 
obtained bark for their canoes. In these light 
boats the women pushed their way through 
the thickets of ripe grain. They beat the 
stalks with short sticks, letting the rice fall 
into the canoes. 

The wild rice was eaten raw from the 
growing plants. It was also parched while 
green for daily use, and bushels of the ripe 
grain were stored away for the long, cold 
winter. 


14 



At harvest time there was always good 
hunting, for great flocks of ducks, geese, and 
other birds flew to the rice stalks to eat the 
seeds. 

In the spring the women, boys, and old 
men spent weeks at the sugar camp. They 
caught the maple sap in small bark dishes 
and boiled it into sugar. The boys kept the 
fires going under the kettles and, for the 
first few days, ate nearly all the sugar they 
made. 

Many kinds of berries grew in this north- 
ern country. These the Indian women picked 
and dried. Indeed, the underground store- 


15 


house of a wigwam housekeeper was full of 
good things to eat. 

Hiawatha is said to have lived on the shore 
of one of the Great Lakes. Before the white 
men sold fire water to the Indians, there were 
many happy homes in the forest. The ways 
of living were the same as we read about in 
Longfellow’s poem, and the children were 
trained to be brave and honorable and to 
respect their elders. 

The boys were trained in woodcraft. They 
learned the names and habits of wild animals. 
They could find their way alone through 
dense forests; and they could see farther and 
hear better than any boys we know. 

The girls were taught by their mothers 
to be modest and industrious. They made 
beautiful beadwork to trim dresses and mocca- 
sins. They could set up a wigwam, prepare 
food, and keep a clean and orderly home. 

This little book tells how children lived 
and played long ago in the wild-rice country. 


16 


Their tribe was then at peace with the fierce 
Indians farther west. A few men of the vil- 
lage had traveled north with furs, but the 
children had never seen a white man. 

The old-time life of the Indians is ended. 
But there are camps in the unsettled lands of 
the wild-rice region where many strange cus- 
toms can still be seen; where the Indian drum 
is heard, and the women gather wild rice as in 
the olden time. 


17 


STORIES AND STORY-TELLERS 

The Indians of long ago had no books and 
no schools;' but each tribe had its story-tellers, 
who went from one wigwam to another. 
Everywhere they were welcomed by old and 
young and begged to return. 

The stories were told and retold by their 
hearers until learned. Indian mothers qui- 
eted their fretful little ones by stories and 
songs just as other mothers have always 
done. 

The Indian stories are strange, and some 
are very beautiful. There are wonderful tales 
of the sun, moon, and stars; of animals and 
birds and trees; of the thunder and the light- 
ning and the winds. 

Through stories the children learned the 
strange beliefs of their parents. They were 
taught to call the sun their father and the 
moon their mother, and all the animals and 
birds their brothers. 


18 


The Indians believed that good and bad 
spirits were all around them on the earth and 
above them in the sky. 

They thought that animals and birds could 
talk, and that they listened to everything 
which was said in the wigwams. 

Tales of fearless hunters and brave war- 
riors made the boys wish to become as brave 
as their fathers. Tales of the men that had 
brought great good to their people led the 
children to hope that they, too, might some- 
time bring blessings to their tribe. 

The children learned that their fathers 
worshiped the Great Spirit, and that no 
warrior ever went on the warpath without 
offering many prayers. 

They were taught that many of their 
dances were thank offerings to the Great 
Spirit, and that the war dance was for success 
in battle. 

In winter evenings the Indians gathered 
around the wigwam fire. This was their only 


19 



light. The fathers and grandfathers told 
wonderful stories of war and hunting, and 
related the old tales they had heard when 
they were children. 

Night after night the boys were drilled in 
repeating the stories they had heard. The 
whole family listened attentively, helping 


20 


all, and praising the one who did the best. 

Special training was given to the boys of 
the tribe who showed the most talent. They 
were carefully prepared to take the places of 
the older story-tellers, for the tribal tales 
must never be lost nor forgotten. 

The Indian belief that animals can talk is 
shown in many of their best stories. Here is 
one about the birds. 



21 


WELCOME TO A PAPOOSE 



Little Wren flies here and there about the 
village of wigwams. She is the news gath- 
erer for the bird council. 

She peers into the tent openings and 
listens to the talk of the mothers. She flits 
about the trees where children play. 

When a little son is born, she carries the 
news to the birds, and they are sad. “Alas, 
alas!” they cry. “We hear the whistle of his 


22 


arrow. The boy will grow, and he will shoot 
us with his bow and'arrows.” 

But when the wren chatters about the 
coming of a baby girl, the birds chirp merrily. 
They sing of the grains she will scatter when 
she grinds the corn into meal. 

They sing of the wild rice she will let drop 
when she comes with her loaded canoe from 
the rice harvest. “Sing merrily, sing mer- 
rily,” they say, “Another woman child has 
come to feed us!” 

The cricket hops in the wigwam. And 
the cricket is glad when the baby is a girl. 
“I shall hide among the floor mats and sing 
where she plays,” he chirps. 

But the cricket is sad when the baby is a 
boy, “He will shoot me, he will shoot me!” 
chirps the cricket. For, as soon as the boy is 
old enough, he will be given a tiny bow; and 
he will fit the sharp arrow and shoot the 
cricket and the grasshopper. 

The woodpecker welcomes the girl baby. 


23 


He sings of the wood worms he will find when 
the girl goes with her mother for wood. For 
the women of the wigwam break the dry 
branches for the fire, and the wood worms 
fall from their hiding places. 

But the raven rejoices at the sight of the 
boy baby in his cradle. “My food, my food!” 
he croaks. A hunter has come to the camp. 
He will shoot the rabbit and the squirrel and 
the deer; and food for the hungry ravens will 
be left where his arrows fall. 

The Indian father rejoices when he looks 
at his son. “May he grow to be a brave hunter 
and a fearless warrior.” Such is the Indian’s 
wish. 


24 






25 


THE INDIAN BABY AND HEE CRADLE 

Why is the happy song of the robin heard 
beside the lodge? Why chirps the cricket so 
merrily? 

Can you not guess ? There is a new daugh- 
ter in the wigwam. Another wood gatherer 
and fire maker has come to the tribe. 

“Bring the new cradle, Nokomis. Let me 
have the beautiful cradle I have made for my 
little daughter.” And Good Bird, the mother, 
points with pride to a strange-looking object 
that is not at all like the cradle your baby 
sleeps in. 

A straight board leans against the inner 
lining of the lodge. To one side of it is fast- 
ened a white doeskin bag which is trimmed 
with beautiful fringes and beadwork. Can 
this be a baby’s cradle? 

Nokomis, the grandmother, opens the bag, 
which is laced down the middle with colored 
strings. She makes a bed of soft moss upon 


26 


the hard board and lays the papoose very 
straight in its little frame. 

Laced and bound, this strange cradle is 
hung to the top of the lodge. A bow of curved 
wood protects the baby’s head from injury, 
should the cradle fall. 

As the little papoose swings gently, the 
Indian mother sings a lullaby, and this is the 
one she often sings: 

“Wa wa — wa wa — wa wa yea, 

Swinging, swinging, lullaby. 

Sleep thou, sleep thou, sleep thou. 

Little daughter, lullaby. 

Wa wa — wa wa — wa wa.” 

Slower and slower swings the cradle and 
the black eyes close in sleep. 

“What shall we name the little onef ’ asks 
the mother. 

Nokomis stands in the door of the wigwam. 
Through the trees she sees the blue water of 
the lake. White clouds are moving rapidly 
across the sky. 


27 


“White Cloud shall be her name,” answers 
Nokomis. 

Good Bird, the mother, smiles and nods. 
As she watches the cradle, she talks to the 
sleeping child. 

“My little woman, you shall be a fire 
maker and a lodge keeper like your mother. 
You shall help me tan the skins for clothing. 
I will teach you to make beautiful dresses and 
trim them with beadwork and quills. Your 
father and your brother will he proud to wear 
the moccasins you make. 

“You shall go with me to the lake when 
the rice is ready to harvest. Together we will 
hunt the wild berries and the nuts. You 
shall be your mother’s helper, my little 
daughter. White Cloud.” 


28 


WHITE CLOUD’S FIRST RIDE 

Wliite Cloud, the baby daughter of Grood 
Bird, is having her first ride out of doors. Do 
you think she is in a baby buggy like your 
little sister’s? Or do you suppose her mother 
draws her in a tiny cart? 

You can never guess unless you know 
how Indian mothers contrive to take their 
babies with them when they are carrying 
heavy loads. White Cloud is laced in her 
strange cradle and bound securely to her 
mother’s back. 

On the bent strip of board that arches over 
the head of the cradle are fastened playthings 
made of carved wood and bone. The bright 
toys jingle and rattle, and the baby laughs. 

To-day the little arms and hands are fir ml y 
laced inside the beaded bag. So the child can 
not reach out and play with the noisy images 
as she loves to do. 

Laced, bound, and protected, the baby is 


29 



safe even when her mother pushes through 
the thickest forest. 

The boys, who run everywhere, have 
brought good news to the camp. “The June 
berries are ripe in the forest,” they say. So 
the mothers are starting with children and 
bags for the berry picking. 

It is not yet sunrise; but it is the custom of 
the Indians to rise early. The men, with bows 
and arrows, knives and spears, have already 
gone away to their daily business — the hunt. 

The older lads are with their fathers, and 
the little boys have begun a long summer’s 


30 


day of shouting, swimming, mud throwing, 
and mischief. Among them is White Cloud’s 
brother, a sturdy boy of four years. 

Here and there are old men sitting in front 
of their lodges and smoking their long pipes. 
Inside, the grandmothers are busy preparing 
food and dressing skins for clothing. 

Most of the women, like Good Bird, carry 
their babies and berry sacks upon their backs; 
but some of them have large dogs trained as 
burden carriers. 

Here comes Two Joys, the mother of twins. 
She is followed by a pair of dogs, each drag- 
ging a strapping brown baby boy. 

One by one, the women and girls wade the 
streams and climb the hills, following the trail 
that leads to the forest. There they separate, 
each to make her own choice of bushes. 

White Cloud’s mother chooses a thicket 
where the berries are large and abundant. 
She fastens her baby’s cradle to the top of a 
low tree. The wind swings the cradle, and. 


31 


like the Mother Goose baby, the Indian 
papoose rocks on the tree top. Let us hope 
that the bough will not break. 

The birds chirp and sing in the branches. 
A squirrel conies near to see what strange 
object is hanging in his tree. The baby wakes 
and cries with fright, and the squirrel scam- 
pers away. 

Good Bird is filling her bags of woven grass 
with purple berries. She does not pick them 
as we do, but breaks oft long branches loaded 
with fruit. Then, with a heavy stick, she beats 
the branch and the berries fall on a large skin 
that is spread on the ground. 

For dinner Good Bird has only dried meat 
and the sweet, juicy berries. But she does 
not think of wishing for more. 

At last the ripe fruit is gathered. The 
baby is fretting, and the mother takes the 
cradle from the tree top. She unlaces the bag 
and lays the little one on the warm grass. 

Now the fruit must be packed and tied 


32 


and the large skin be rolled up. While the 
mother works the child grows restless and 
cries. You can never guess why. She is ask- 
ing in baby language to be put back on her 
stiff board! 

Very soon Good Bird is ready and, with 
the cradle and bags strapped to her back, she 
starts for home. Other berry pickers loaded 
with fruit join her, and together they walk 
the trail that leads back to the camp. 

Nokomis is watching for the baby. She 
lifts the cradle and hangs it to the lodge pole. 
The little one is restless. She turns her head 
from side to side, her black eyes shining. 

Then the grandmother sings the owl song 
in which Indian babies delight: 

“Ah wa nain, ah wa nain. 

Who is this, who is this. 

Giving light, light bringing 
To the roof of my lodge?” 

The singer changes her voice to imitate 
a little screech owl and answers: 


33 


is I — the little owl — 

Coming 

Dowi^ do^a^! down!’’ ^ 

As she sings, sB^prings toward the baby 
and down goesf^he mtie head. How the 
papoose laughs and crows! Again Nokomis 
sings: 

‘‘Who is this, eyelight bringing, 

To the roof of my lodge? 

It is I, hither swinging — 

Dodge, baby, dodge.” 

Over and over the lullaby is sung, now 
softer and now slower. The eyelids droop, 
and the little one is quiet. 


34 


NOKOMIS TELLS A STORY 

Good Bird had prepared the evening meal, 
but no one came to eat it. Her husband, 
Fleet Deer, was late in returning from the 
hunt, and her little son was still shouting and 
running with his boy playmates. 

The tired baby slept, and the two women 
sat outside the wigwam in the warm June 
evening. 

“Now that I have a little daughter, I must 
learn all your stories, Nokomis,” said Good 
Bird. “Suppose you tell one while we wait.” 

“I heard a new one last moon,” answered 
Nokomis. “Our village story-teller has trav- 
eled far from our camp. He visited another 
tribe and heard all their stories. I will tell 
you the tale he told about the first straw- 
berries: 

“In the very Earliest times a young girl 
became so angry one day that she ran away 
from home. Her family followed her, calling 


35 



and grieving; but she would not answer their 
calls, nor even turn her head. 

“The great sun looked down with pity 
from the sky and tried to settle the quarrel. 
First he caused a patch of ripe blueberries 
to grow in her path. 

“The girl pushed her way through the low 
bushes without stooping to pick a berry. 

“Further on the sun made juicy black- 
berries grow by the trail, but the runaway 
paid no attention to them. 


36 


“Then low trees laden with the purple 
June berry tempted her, but still she hur- 
ried on. 

“Every kind of berry that the sun had ever 
helped to grow, he placed in her path to cause 
delay, but without success. 

“The girl still pressed on until she saw 
clusters of large ripe strawberries growing in 
the grass at her feet. 

“She stooped to pick and to eat. Then she 
turned and saw that she was followed. 

“Forgetting her anger, she gathered the 
clusters of ripe, red berries and started back 
along the path to share them with her family. 

“Then she went home as if nothing had 
ever happened!” 


37 


THE FIEEFLY DANCE 

It is a summer evening. There is no moon, 
and the stars twinkle brightly in the sky. A 
half circle of Indian lodges fronts a small 
lake. Wide meadows slope to its shores. 

All the air is alive with lights, twinkling, 
whirling, sparkling. Thousands of fireflies 
are swarming above the grass. 

The meadow is full of Indian boys and 
girls, little and big, dancing the firefly dance. 
Advancing and retreating, turning and twist- 
ing, bowing and whirling, they imitate the 
moving lights about them and above them. 

In front of the lodges sit the warriors and 
the squaws looking on. 

Good Bird is watching every move of her 
son. He is one of the most active dancers on 
the field. 

“Look, Nokomis!” she says, “No boy is 
straighter than your grandson, and there is 
no better dancer.” 


Fleet Deer says nothing, bnt he is thinking 
of the time when his son will take part in the 
war dance of his tribe. 

Little White Clond stands by her mother. 
She has known three winters and is now a 
chubby, pretty little Indian girl. 

Suddenly she begins to imitate her brother. 
She throws out her tiny brown arms, turns 
round and round, jumps and bows, while 
Nokomis and Good Bird shout with laughter. 

Listen! the children are singing. What 


39 


do they say? It is the song of the fireflies that 
we hear. 

Nokomis has chanted the same words and 
melody for many a lullaby, and she keeps 
time, singing the same song: 

^‘Wau wau tay see, wau wau tay see, 

Flitting white fire insect. 

Waving white fire bug. 

Give me light before I go to bed. 

Give me light before I go to sleep! 

Come, little dancing white fire bng. 

Come, little fiitting white fire beast. 

Light me with your bright white fiame, 

Light me with your httle candle.” 


40 


SWIFT ELK, THE INDIAN BOY 

Four years have passed since the summer 
evening when Good Bird watched her chil- 
dren in the firefly dance. Her son, Swift Elk, 
is now a tall, straight lad of eleven winters. 
His sister, four years younger, is a sturdy 
little girl, already able to help her mother in 
many ways. 

The boy is the pride of the lodge. Prom 
his earliest babyhood he has been trained to 
be strong and fearless. 

“Lay him very straight,” his father used 
to say when the baby boy was placed on his 
cradle board. “Do not make his bed too soft. 
My son must grow tall and strong, for he will 
sometime be a great warrior.” 

Since he could first walk he has gone with 
his father each day to the lake to take an early 
morning bath. Like all Indians, he learned 
to swim when he was very small, and he loves 
to splash and dive and play in the water. 


41 


Do you suppose that Swift Elk dresses 
himself after his bath? He does not think 
clothing at all necessary except in winter. 

Does he help his mother in her work about 
the lodge? Never! “A boy does not do 
squaw’s work,” he says. “A boy must learn 
to hunt and shoot.” 

Is he not made to mind? Is he never pun- 
ished ? Oh, no ; he will be a great warrior some 
day, and his father says he ought not to be 
afraid of any one. And so he lives the wild, 
free life of the Indian boy. He spends his day 
in play, with no school, no lessons, and no 
work to do. 

When the father is at home he teaches the 
boy to notice very carefully everything he 
sees. He must learn the names of plants and 
birds. He must know the habits of animals 
and how to hunt them. Above everything, he 
must be brave and daring. 

Wliile the men are away hunting, the 
younger boys spend the day shooting, fishing. 


42 


swimming, and playing games. If they wish 
to throw mud balls at each other, no one scolds 
them for being dirty. But if one of them 
whimpers or cries, his companions will not 
let him play. So the Indian boy learns early 
in life to bear pain without complaint. 

Swift Elk’s father made a little bow and 
arrow for his son as soon as he was old enough 
to run out of the wigwam. Each summer he 
received a larger bow and more destructive 
arrows. 

Wherever the boy goes he carries his 
weapon, and he is always watching for the 
chance to shoot a bird, rabbit, squirrel, or any 
wild animal. 

How his mother and grandmother praise 
him when he brings home game! “You will 
be a great hunter,” they say. “Soon you will 
be able to go with your father to shoot bear 
and deer.” 

Swift Elk sleeps on a bed of cedar boughs 
covered with skins. As the first-born son, he 


43 


has the place of honor. His bed is next to his 
father’s, close against the inner lining of the 
lodge, and nearly opposite the entrance. 

This is the boy’s own place, and he is 
allowed to decorate it as he wishes. Birds’ 
wings, feathers, and squirrels’ tails show his 
skill in hunting. 

Here he keeps nearly 
everything that he owns. 

He has hung his bow and ar- 
rows on the lodge pole above 
his bed. His snowshoes, tops, 
and balls are in a bag of skin 
high above the reach of baby 
hands. 

Swift Elk looks forward 
to the time when he shall be 
admitted to the councils of his tribe and take 
part in their dances and yearly feasts. 

Like other Indian children, he has been 
trained to count time by winters, moons, and 
sleeps, and so he does not know his exact age. 



44 


He has never heard of keeping birthdays; but 
he has had many feasts given in his honor, 
which are the same to him as a party would be 
to you. 

When an Indian boy wins a game which 
requires great skill, or shows himself brave 
in time of danger, his companions shout his 
praises. 

They go with him to the door of his lodge, 
telling of the brave deed he has performed. 
Then they sing and dance in his honor. 

It is expected that the women of the lodge 
will show their pleasure by giving each boy 
some dainty from the stores of food packed 
away for feasts. 

On the day that Swift Elk first shot a rab- 
bit his father gave a feast for him, inviting all 
his relatives. But the most important cele- 
bration of his whole life was when he won a 
victory in racing and received his name. 


45 


THE NAMING OP SWIFT ELK 

Unlike their sisters, Indian boys are sel- 
dom named in babyhood. Some are known 
only as the sons of their fathers. Others bear 
the nicknames given by their companions. 
But often a boy’s name is decided upon by 
reason of some important action of his own. 

For the first few years of Swift Elk’s life 
he was spoken of as the son of Fleet Deer. 
When he was quite small, he stood, one even- 
ing, watching the older boys race. They ran 
in couples, their companions standing on 
either side of the race course. There were 
yells of joy for the victors, and jeers and howls 
for those who were so unlucky as to trip or 
stumble in the way. 

A young hunter standing near noticed the 
shining eyes of the little watcher and shouted, 
“Give the younger boys a chance!” And so 
the son of Fleet Deer was started in the race 
with a boy of his own size. 


46 


Once, twice, thrice, did the eager child 
outrun his playmate amid shouts and 
laughter. His little feet seemed to fly over 
the ground. 

“He is as swift as a young elk,” said the 
bystanders. And before the racing was 
ended, the child was called again to the trial 
of speed, this time with an older lad. Again 
he was flrst at the goal. 

“He will be a runner like his father,” said 
the warriors who had come near to watch the 
sports of their children. 

Fleet Deer, when a young man, was the 
fastest runner in his tribe. And now his 
little son had won a race and the father was 
proud. He walked slowly toward his lodge 
and entered the curtained opening. 

“Prepare a feast in honor of our son,” 
he said to Good Bird, his wife. 

Standing in front of his wigwam, he 
called in a loud voice the names of his broth- 
ers and kinsmen in the camp. 


47 



They came, one by one, entered the low 
doorway, and were seated in a circle close to 
the inner wall of the wigwam, some on the low 
beds and some on mats. 

Nokomis and Good Bird passed to each a 
wooden dish containing meat, dried berries, 
parched rice, and maple sugar. 

There were many prayers and much smok- 
ing of the long pipe which was passed from 
host to guest. Then Fleet Deer led his son to 
the middle of the wigwam. The child’s face 
and body were painted, and his long hair was 
braided and wound around his head. 


48 


“You have seen my son outrun his play- 
mates,” said the father. “You know that he 
has taken the honors of victory from a com- 
panion that is older and larger. One and 
another who watched the race have said that 
my son is like a young elk in his running. 

“I was but a lad, my kinsmen, when your 
former chief, my father, gave me the name I 
bear. He has taken the long journey to the 
land of spirits. Will you agree that his grand- 
son bear the name of Swift Elkf’ 

The warriors gravely bowed their heads 
in approval. Again the pipe was passed, and 
the smoke curled and rose in the lodge. 

Swift Elk, the grandson of a great chief, 
had earned his name. 


49 


FIRE AND THE FIRE MAKERS 

“Are you going away, Grrandmother*? 
Take me with you.” 

“I am on my way to the forest, White 
Cloud. It vill be a long walk for you. We 
need dry moss and decayed wood for tinder. 
Some cold morning we shall wake and find no 
red coals in the ashes. Then we shall need 
some pieces of the driest of wood to kindle a 
new fire.” 

“Let me go, and I will help you look for 
dry wood. I know I am big enough to be a fire 
maker. Haven’t I seen seven winters'?” 

So Nokomis and White Cloud started on 
the trail that led to the wild forest. There 
great trees had died and fallen, and the 
branches had been decaying for many moons 
— no one can tell how many. 

“Is the fire always lost when we move our 
camp. Grandmother'?” 

“Not always. Some lodge keepers try to 


50 


carry a few coals, and the one who succeeds 
is glad to share with others. But one person 
is often sent ahead to the new camp to make 
a central fire out of doors. You know it takes 
a long time to get a spark by rubbing two 
sticks together.” 

“How did the Indians get fire in the first 
place? And how did fire get into wood?” 
asked White Cloud. 

“I will tell you, my child. I have heard 
all about it from the story-tellers. 

“Once there was only one fire in all the 
world. It was kept in a sacred wigwam and 
guarded by an old blind man. 

“All the Indians had heard about fire and 
wanted very much to get it. But no one knew 
where it was hidden. 

“The old man had two daughters who gath- 
ered his wood. He used only the driest 
branches, so that no smoke could be seen, and 
no odor from the burning of green houghs be 
lifted to the wind. 


51 


“But one day a tiny, curling wreath of 
smoke rose above the lodge opening. 

“Of course the birds saw it, and flew over 
the lodge poles until they discovered the 
secret. You may be sure that they chirped 
the news wherever they flew. 

“A woodpecker went into a hole in a tree 
to carry his mate some food and told her where 
fire was kept. He was overheard by a squirrel 
running up the tree trunk. 

“‘Chip, chip! chatter, chatter! Hear the 
squirrels in the tree tops,’ said a rabbit. ‘What 
are they talking about f By listening he soon 
found out. 

“Then Bruin heard the rabbits, and the 
bear teased the wolf by letting him know that 
the birds had a great secret. 

“A flock of sparrows settled in front of the 
wolf’s den, and the wolf soon heard all he 
wanted to know. He, in turn, told a dog that 
sometimes ran with him at night. 

“Of course the dog told the boy he loved 


52 


best, and so the Indians found out where fire 
was hidden, 

“ ‘ W e must have fire,’ they said. ‘Who will 
get it for us?’ 

“At last Manabush said that he would try 
to get fire for his tribe. 

“Manabush was a daring young Indian 
hunter. Like Hiawatha, he spent his life try- 
ing to help his people. He saw how fire was 
needed to warm the lodges in winter, and to 
cook the raw meat freshly killed in the hunt. 

“So Manabush made a birch canoe and 
started across the great lake. When he 
reached land he pulled his light canoe out 
of the water and carried it on his back to a 
near-by thicket. Then he changed himself 
into a rabbit and hopped away into the long 
grass. 

“Soon there came up a great storm. The 
old man guarded the sacred fire with the ut- 
most care until the rain was over. Then he 
went to sleep near the glowing coals. 


53 


“His daughters came out of the lodge to 
look at the sky. As they hent down to enter 
the low door, they saw a little rabbit lying on 
the grass. His fur was wet, and he was trem- 
bling with cold. 

“One of the daughters carried him in and 
laid him down where it was warm. The rabbit 
hopped nearer the fire. 

“The old man started from his sleep. 
‘What do I hear?’ he asked. 

“ ‘You have heard nothing. Father. We 
picked up a little wet rabbit and brought him 
in to dry.’ 

“The old man closed his eyes again. His 
daughters turned and went on with their 
work. Quickly the rabbit seized a burning 
stick and hopped away by leaps and hounds. 

“Up jumped the old man. ‘My fire, my 
sacred fire, is stolen!’ he cried. His daughters 
ran out of the lodge to chase the thief. 

“But the old blind man thought that some- 
one was in the wigwam. So he snatched a long 


stick and pounded so hard on every side that 
he beat some of the fire into a log. This is the 
way that fire came to be in wood.” 

“What did the rabbit do, Glrandmother?” 

“He ran to the canoe, changed back to a 
man, put the fire in a magic bag, and paddled 
as fast as he could to his own camp. 

“There he lighted a pile of wood for his 
grandmother, and then hurried away to the 
Thunderers. They have kept the sacred fire 
for the Indians since that day.” 

“Who are the Thunderers, Glrandmotherf’ 
asked White Cloud. 

“After we have had our dinner I will tell 


55 


you the story. Now we will use some of our 
dry wood and make a fire.” 

“Can I learn to get the fire out of wood?” 
asked White Cloud. 

“You will need to try again and again, for 
it is not an easy task. Watch me, my child, 
and see how it is done.” 

Nokomis soon had a pile of dry grass and 
twigs. Then she rubbed two pieces of wood 
together for a long time. At last a spark flew 
from the dry wood and the grass was lighted. 

Meat and birds’ eggs were soon roasted in 
the hot ashes. After the meal Nokomis and 
White Cloud started for home, each with a 
bundle of wood strapped to her back. 

“Now I ’m ready for the story you prom- 
ised me,” said White Cloud. 


56 


THE THUNDEEEES 

“Far in the east, above the sky, the great 
Thunderer lives with his two sons. They are 
the friends of the whole world. When you 
hear their voices be glad, for they are bring- 
ing the gift of rain. 

“In the spring they come from their sky 
home with the showers that make the grass 
grow and the little plants peep out of the 
ground. 

“They water the earth; and the corn comes 
up, the sap flows for our sugar, the trees open 
their leaves and blossoms, and the berries 
ripen. 

“Without their help every growing plant 
would turn brown and fade away. The wild 
rice and the sugar trees would die. Animals 
would search in vain for food, and they would 
crawl into their dens and perish, 

“There would be no game for the hunter 
to shoot. Then the terrible famine spirits 


57 


would enter our lodges, and we would sicken 
and die. 

“We should never fear the loud voices of 
the Thunderers, for they are always good and 
kind. 

“They are the war chiefs of the world. 
When we see the rainbow, we catch a glimpse 
of the splendid robes they wear. 

“In the middle of their great lodge burns 
the sacred fire, which they guard for all the 
people of the earth.” 

“I will never he afraid again when I hear 
them speaking,” said White Cloud. “But I 
like to be in the lodge when they bring their 
rain storms. If they come to-day perhaps we 
can find a cave in the hills our trail crosses.” 

“It would not be safe for us to enter a cave 
in the forest,” replied Nokomis. “The Little 
People might be in it, and they would be 
displeased.” 


58 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OP THE POEEST 

“And now,” said White Cloud, “I want to 
hear all about the Little People.” 

“Speak low. White Cloud. We are coming 
to the rocky hillside. We must listen, for we 
may hear them drumming.” 

“I wish we could! We would run and try 
to see them.” 

“It would be far better for us to turn and 
run the other way. The Little People do not 
like to be disturbed. If they should see us, 
they might cast a spell on us.” 

“What harm would that do us?” asked the 
child. 

“We would forget where we are going and 
who we are. We might wander in the woods 
until we starved, for we could never find the 
trail home.” 

“How do the Little People look, and what 
do they do? Does anyone know?” 

“They are handsome little men, smaller 


59 



than the tiniest babies. By daylight they 
drum and dance, for they are very fond of 
music. 

“If they are not disturbed, they are very 
kind and helpful, especially to those who are 
in trouble. They do not like to be seen, and 
will never work if a man or woman, or even 
a child, is in sight. 

“Sometimes they come to the cornfield 
when it is very dark. If they are heard, no 
Indian goes out of the lodge; Often the field 
will be found well weeded in the morning and 
the earth loose about the growing plants. 


60 


“Once, in the moon of ripe com, there was 
a woman alone with a sick child. She heard 
the Little People near her lodge, and she re- 
membered to be very quiet. In the morning 
her corn was all picked for her. 

“If a hunter finds an arrow near the corn- 
field, he must say very loud: ‘Little People, 
will you let me have this arrow?’ for it may 
have been shot from their bows. 

“If he takes it without asking, he may be 
hit with stones as he is walking home.” 

“Tell me about the boy who was changed 
into a hunter spirit,” said White Cloud. 

“There was once a boy,” began Nokomis, 
“who ran away from home. He grew smaller 
and smaller until he became like the spirits 
of the woods. 

“But he is full of mischief. You can some- 
times tell what he is doing, although he him- 
self is never seen. 

“Have you not noticed your dog jump up 
quickly from the place where he has been 


61 


sleeping f The spirit of the runaway boy is 
whipping him with nettles. 

“You will often see a flock of birds sud- 
denly leave their food and fly away. The little 
hunter spirit has frightened them. 

“When the tired hunter stops, far from his 
lodge, to roast his meat, the little mischief- 
maker blows out his Are and fans the smoke 
into his eyes. 

“He catches the arrows which are aimed 
at the birds and hides them. He puts slippery 
clay in the path and laughs when the children 
fall. No one can tell all his tricks of mischief.” 

“Grandmother, look! Here is an arrow on 
the ground.” 

“Let it be. We will not annoy the spirits. 
Now we must hurry home, for the clouds 
darken and I can hear the loud voices of the 
Thunderers starting out from their sky home.” 


62 


BLACK WOLF TELLS A STORY 

The boys were practicing with their bows 
and arrows. After a few trials, in which little 
skill was shown, Swift Elk threw down his 
bow. “I’m tired of shooting,” he said. “Come 
on, boys, let ’s go to the lake for a swim.” 

Black Wolf, the oldest warrior of the tribe, 
was sitting on the ground near by, watching 
the sport. 

“Do not give up,” said the old man. “You 
are a big boy now. Only by skill in shooting 
can you become a brave warrior. Let no 
one know you are tired or weak. Remember 
the boy who was changed to the lone lightning 
of the North.” 

“Tell us the story,” Swift Elk begged. 
“Then we will practice again and do our 
best.” 

The boys threw themselves on the ground 
near Black Wolf, and he began the story. 

“There was once a little boy who had no 


63 


one to care for him. His father had been killed 
in war, and his mother taken captive by the 
enemy. 

“Minno, the lonely boy, lived in his uncle’s 
wigwam, but he was not wanted there. He 
had hard work to do and very little to eat. 

“He was too weak to join the rough games 
of his playmates, and he did not become skill- 
ful with his bow and arrows like the other boys 
of the tribe. 

“At last he became so thin from hunger 
that the uncle feared his cruel treatment 
would become known. 

“So he told his wife to feed the boy with 
bear’s meat. ‘Give him plenty of fat,’ he 
ordered. ‘Cram him with bear’s fat.’ It was 
now the uncle’s plan to kill the boy by over- 
feeding. 

“One day when Minno had been nearly 
choked with fat meat, he ran away. He wan- 
dered about in the woods, and when night 
came he was afraid of the wild beasts. So he 


64 


climbed into a tall tree and fell asleep in the 
branches. 

“In his dreams a person came to him from 
the upper sky and said: ‘My poor little lad, I 
pity you. Follow me, and be sure to step in 
my tracks.’ 

“So the lad arose and followed his guide 
up, up, into the upper sky. There he was given 
twelve magic arrows and told to shoot the 
manitoes of the North. 

“ ‘They are the evil spirits of the air,’ said 
his guide. ‘You must go to war against them. 
I have given you magic arrows that will kill 
them if your aim is true.’ 

“The boy placed an arrow with great care, 
but failed to kill a manito. One, two, three, 
four, five, six arrows had left his bow, each 
leaving behind it a long streak of lightning. 
But not one had reached its mark. 

“Carefully he aimed; seven, eight, nine, 
ten, eleven. Alas! his skill was not equal to 
his task. 


65 



“Long he held the twelfth arrow. He 
looked around on every side. The evil spirits 
had wonderful power, and they could change 
their forms in a moment. 

“The boy let his last arrow fly toward the 
heart of the chief of the manitoes. But the 
evil spirit saw it coming and changed himself 
into a rock. 

“ ‘How dare you try to kill me!’ cried 
the angry manito. ‘Now you shall suffer. 
You shall evermore be like the trail of your 
arrow.’ 

“And he changed the boy into the lone 


lightning which you so often see, my children, 
in the northern sky.” 

“I wish I could shoot as well as I can run,” 
Swift Elk said. “It is easy to win in the races, 
but I can never beat in a shooting match.” 

“You can if you will practice more than 
the other boys. You remember how the crane 
beat the humming bird in a race.” 

“Tell us about it, tell us,” begged all the 
boys. “Then we will shoot our arrows all day 
long until the sun hides his face.” 

The old man was silent for a time. Then 
he said, “I will tell you just one more story. 
And you shall keep your word and practice 
until the darkness creeps over the earth.” 


67 


THE EACE BETWEEN THE OEANE AND THE 
HUMMING BIED 



The crane dared the humming bird to a 
race. The humming bird was as swift as an 
arrow, but the crane flew slowly. 

At the word they both started. The hmn- 
ming bird was far ahead and he stopped to 
roost on a limb; but the crane flew all night. 

The humming bird woke in the morning, 
thinking it would be no trouble to win the race. 
He was very much surprised when he passed 
the crane spearing fish for his breakfast! 
“How did the Slow One get ahead?” he 


68 


thought. “I must start earlier in the morn- 
ing.” He flew swiftly until dusk, when he 
stopped to roost on a tree. 

The crane flew all night. Before morning 
he was again ahead, and he had finished his 
breakfast when the Swift One passed him. 

“This is indeed strange,” thought the 
humming bird. “But I can fly a little faster, 
and it will be no trouble to win.” So he 
stopped again, far ahead, to take his usual 
sleep. 

The crane flew all night, as usual. He 
passed the sleeping humming bird at mid- 
night and was well on his way before he was 
overtaken. The humming bird flew as long 
as he could see, and before midnight he was 
again ahead. 

Each night the humming bird slept. Each 
night the crane flew. “Gaining a little; gain- 
ing a little!” he said to himself. 

Later and later in the day did the Swift 
One pass the Slow One. Earlier and earlier 


69 


in the night did the Slow One pass the Swift 
One. 

On the last day of the race the crane was 
a night’s travel ahead. He took his time at 
breakfast. The humming bird passed him 
at sundown and stopped to sleep. 

The next morning the humming bird flew 
like the wind and reached the goal early in 
the day. But there stood the heavy crane 
waiting, for he had flown all night! 


70 


HUNTING WILD DUCKS 

Swift Elk had sharpened his arrows and 
taken his strongest bow from the wooden peg 
over his bed. 

“I have seen wild ducks flying by the lake,” 
he said. “I am going to hide in the long grass 
and watch for them. If they come again, they 
shall feel my arrows. To-night we eat roast 
duck.” 

The boy ran toward the lake. His sister. 
White Cloud, watched him until he was out 
of sight. “Why can’t girls go hunting?” she 
said. “I have seen seven winters. I shall 
follow his trail.” 

The child ran along, hiding behind trees 
and bushes, and stepping softly so that no 
broken twig could tell of her approach. 

Indian children can see farther and hear 
far better than we can. Although the old-time 
Indian never went to school, yet he trained 
his children to listen to every sound in the 


71 


forest, and to notice all signs of animal life. 

When White Cloud was near the lake, she 
hid in a clump of bushes and watched. Just in 
sight was a little stream winding through the 
low meadow. 

She saw Swift Elk run along its hanks. 
She waited without moving — waited as only 
an Indian child knows how to wait. 

At last, far off, she saw a speck in the sky, 
then another and another. The specks grew 
larger. She held her breath. 

A flock of wild ducks flew across the lake. 
Near the shore they turned and flew over the 
low meadow where the boy hunter was hiding 
in the high grass. 

Suddenly the swift arrows flew. One, two, 
three, four ducks were hit and fell to the 
ground. Swift Elk picked up three and swung 
them over his shoulder. 

He looked a long time for the fourth duck. 
Then, seeing another flock approaching, he 
ran toward the lake shore. 


72 


Again he was fortunate in choosing the 
place of their approach. White Cloud saw 
more arrows fly, and more ducks fall. Swift 
Elk ran on out of sight. 

Then the little girl crawled from her 
hiding-place and crept along the ground in 
search of the missing duck. Surely there was 
something stirring in the long grass ahead. 
Almost afraid to move, the child crept closer 
and closer, until she saw a duck with a broken 
wing hanging useless by its side. 

In a moment she had caught it. She held 
the bird in her arms until its struggles ceased. 
Then she bound its wing to its body with long 
pieces of grass. 

She crawled to the stream and dropped 
water in its bill. The duck swallowed the 
water but refused all food. 

White Cloud watched every movement in 
the distance, not daring to stand lest Swift 
Elk return. So she worked her way, con- 
cealed by high grass, to the home trail. 


73 


How she ran until she reached the low wig- 
wam built for her dolls! Here she made a soft 
bed for the wounded bird. She smoothed its 
feathers and talked to it. How happy she was 
when she was able to coax the duck to eat the 
food she offered! 

Swift Elk came home at night with all the 
game he could carry. His mother praised his 
hunting, and his father was pleased because 
he had passed the entire day alone and with- 
out a mouthful of food. 

“You must endure hunger and thirst, cold 
and heat, danger and pain, if you would be- 
come a great warrior,” said his father. “And 
you must find your way alone through the 
forest for miles and miles, listening every 
moment for the footsteps of an enemy or the 
approach of a wild beast.” 

A fire had been made in front of the lodge. 
The ducks were buried, feathers and all, in 
the hot ashes. White Cloud brought wild ber- 
ries and water from the spring. As soon as 


74 

the birds were roasted the feathers and skins 
were pulled off and the hungry boy enjoyed 
his meal. 

But White Cloud watched her chance to 
carry part of her own food to the duck. How 
she hated to leave him when the dark came 
on! But she fastened the shelter securely, 
hoping that no lurking fox or weasel would 
force his way inside. 

The next morning White Cloud was up 
before her brother. She hid in the tiny lodge, 
to protect her pet until Swift Elk had left for 
the day. 

The duck soon became so tame that it fol- 
lowed her wherever she went. The difficulty 
in taming the wild creature, and the constant 
danger of losing it, led the child to be as kind 
and patient with her pet as an Indian mother 
is with her papoose. 

One day Good Bird was roasting deer 
meat. She had made a hot fire in front of the 
lodge. Sticks sharpened at both ends were 


75 



driven in the ground close to the bed of coals. 
The sticks were bent toward the fire, and each 
one held a large piece of raw meat. 

When the meat was tender, Good Bird 
called her little daughter. “My father is old,” 
she said. “He can no longer hunt. Take some 
of this roast meat to him.” 

White Cloud took the dish and went to her 
grandfather’s lodge, the duck waddling be- 
hind her. After the old man had eaten. White 
Cloud said, “Grandfather^ do you know any 
stories about ducks?” 


76 


“Point to the north, my grandchild, and 
tell me who live in the land of ice and snow.” 

“North Wind and Old Winter,” answered 
the child. 

“And what do they do, little one?” 

“They send the game far from my father’s 
arrows. They freeze our food and try to starve 
us. North Wind gives the war whoop as he 
flies in the forest. 

“Then Old Winter comes like the Indians 
on the war trail. We cannot see him, and we 
cannot hear him. He does not break a twig, 
and his footsteps make no sound. He crowds 
into our lodge, and tries to steal our fire and 
freeze us. I wish he would never come again!” 

“We must be brave, my grandchild. We 
must make ready with food and firewood to 
fight his power. I will tell you of a brave little 
duck that even North Wind could not con- 
quer.” 


77 


A BRAVE DUCK 

Far to the north lived Wild Duck. His 
lodge was by the frozen lake. Winter was 
beginning, and he had but four logs of wood 
for his fire. 

“Four logs will do,” he said. “Each log 
will burn for many sleeps, and then spring 
will be on the way.” 

Wild Duck was as brave as a warrior. On 
the coldest days he went to the lake to fish. 
He found the rushes that grew high above the 
water. With his strong bill he pulled up the 
frozen plant stems. Then he dived through 
the holes he had made in the ice and caught 
the fish swimming beneath. 

In this way he found plenty of food. Every 
day he went home to his lodge dragging 
strings of fish. North Wind blew his fiercest 
blasts, but no wind was cold enough to keep 
Wild Duck in his wigwam. 

“This is a strange duck!” said North Wind. 


78 


“He seems as happy as if it were the moon of 
strawberries. He is hard to conquer, but I 
will freeze him.” 

So the wind blew colder and colder, and 
great drifts of snow were piled up about the 
wigwam. But still the fire burned brightly. 
The duck went daily to the lake, and daily he 
brought home fish. 

“Soon I will visit him,” said North Wind. 
“Then he shall feel my power.” 

That very night North Wind went to the 
door of the wigwam. He lifted the curtain 
and looked in. 

Wild Duck had cooked his fish and was 
lying before the bright fire. He was singing 
a song to his enemy. 

“You may blow as hard as you can. North 
Wind,” he sang. “I dare you to freeze me. 
You may pile the snow to the top of my lodge. 
I shall climb the drifts and go fishing just the 
same.” 

“How dare a little duck sing like this about 


79 

me f ’ blustered North Wind. “I will enter, I 
will blow my cold breath upon him, and he 
will freeze.” 

North Wind pushed his way through the 
door and sat down on the opposite side of 
the lodge. Cold blasts filled the hut. 

Was Wild Duck afraid? He got up 
and poked the fire, singing his song louder 
and louder. Not once did he look at his 
guest. 

“Does he not know that I am here?” 
thought North Wind. 

The little duck stirred the great log until 
it crackled and snapped. 

“I cannot stand this heat,” said North 
Wind to himself, “I am melting. I must go 
out.” The water was dripping from his hair, 
and tears ran down his cheeks. He crept out 
of the wigwam and left Wild Duck to his 
songs. 

“What a wonderful duck!” he said. “I 
cannot freeze him, I cannot even stop his sing- 


80 


ing. The spirit of the fire is helping him, and 
I will let him alone.” 

And to this day you can see the wild duck 
fishing where the rushes grow. He is warm in 
his coat of thick feathers, and North Wind 
can never freeze the brave little duck. 



81 


SUMMEE SPORTS 

Swift Elk and his companions were cut- 
ting great chunks of clay from the bank 
near the stream. Soon a crowd of boys, each 
armed with a large piece of clay and a long 
green switch, ran shouting to the near-by 
forest. 

Here they divided into two bands for a 
sham battle, and all hid behind trees. Balls 
of clay were pressed on the ends of the slender 
sticks and thrown, as you would throw green 
apples. 

Swift Elk ran out from behind the tree 
where he had been hiding. Quickly he threw 
mud balls at every boy that he saw peeping 
at him. 

Other boys rushed from their sheltering 
tree trunks to dare the opposing forces. 
A shower of mud balls filled the air. There 
were shouts and war whoops, advances and 
retreats. 


82 


Dogs, barking and jumping, rushed into 
battle with their masters. 

When the clay was all used, the boys ran 
to the bank for more. For half a day the fight 
went on, many prisoners being taken on both 
sides. 

Here and there were young braves who 
had been hit in the face and badly hurt. One 
was suffering great pain with a swollen eye. 

Do you think he left the game and ran 
home? Do you think he cried or told tales? 
A boy would rather stand pain than be 
laughed at by his companions. “Tears are 
for girls and women,” they had all heard 
their fathers say. “A warrior must not notice 
pain.” 

At last, heated and mud-stained, they ran 
to the lake and jumped in. You would have 
thought they all needed a bath, could you have 
seen them. 

Splashing and swimming, diving and yell- 
ing, they continued their battle by wrestling 


83 



in the water. The day wore on. One by one, 
tired with action, they left the lake. Some 
lay on the grass, and others made images of 
animals with soft clay. 

Two or three boys, very hungry, shot some 
birds, made a fire, and roasted their game. It 
mattered not to them that their food was far 
from clean. 

Before they went home at night. Swift 


84 


Elk’s band dared the other side to a ball game, 
to be played the next morning. 

“Let us ask Black Wolf to watch our 
game,” said Swift Elk. All agreed. The old 
warrior could not go on the long hunt or the 
warpath, and nothing gave him greater pleas- 
ure than to help the boys and young men in 
their games of strength or skill. 



85 


THE BALL GAME 

Early in the morning the boys met on the 
level piece of ground that had been selected 
for the game. At each end of the field two 
upright poles, a little distance apart, were 
erected for goal sticks. 

In the great ball games played by the men, 
each side is allowed but one goal stick, which 
must be hit by the ball. As this is very diffi- 
cult, Black Wolf helped the hoys set up two 
very long sticks, between which the winner’s 
ball was to be thrown. 

Each player always carries a ball stick 
bent at one end into a small hoop or ring. 
Strips of rawhide are passed through holes 
in the hoop, making a netted pocket in which 
the ball may rest half hidden. 

The one simple rule that each player 
follows at all times is: “Keep the ball away 
from your own goal.” Only by sending 
the ball off the field between the two goal 


86 


sticks of the opposite side can victory be won. 

Swift Elk and Antelope were chosen cap- 
tains because they were good runners. All 
the best players stood in the middle of the field. 
The younger boys were grouped about the goal 
sticks with orders to send the ball back into 
the field. 

At a signal from Black Wolf, Antelope 
tossed the ball into the air. It was caught by 
a player on his own side, who started to run 
in the opposite direction from his own goal 
sticks. 

The ball was knocked out of his hand and 
thrown the other way. Back and forth it went 
until Antelope caught it in his ball stick. He 
started at full speed toward the goal on Swift 
Elk’s side. 

In a moment he was caught and the ball 
again turned. Running, screaming, throwing, 
pushing, striking each other’s arms with ball 
sticks, the boys rushed together. 

At last Antelope’s side gained the advan- 


87 

tage. Nearer and nearer the ball came to 
Swift Elk’s goal sticks. One strong throw, 
and the game would be won. Antelope’s play- 
ers danced and yelled with joy. 

Suddenly a younger boy, one of the poor 
players who was made to stand on guard; 
caught the ball and sent it whizzing toward 
Swift Elk. 

The other side, sure of success, was taken 
by surprise. Before Antelope could turn. 
Swift Elk had the start and was speeding 
toward the opposite goal. 

“Never was there a finer race,” Black Wolf 
thought. All the boys had crowded together 
at one end of the line to see the victory, leav- 
ing an open field for the two fleetest runners. 

You would have liked to see the two Indian 
lads with painted bodies running like the 
wind. They were followed by a crowd of boys 
shouting, howling, rushing, pushing, and try- 
ing in vain to overtake them. 

But not even Antelope could regain the 


88 


advantage he lost in starting. Swift Elk 
swung his stick and sent the ball spinning 
between the two poles of the goal. He had 
won the game for his side. 

After the victors had shouted themselves 
hoarse, they lay down on the ground near 
Black Wolf and asked for a story. 

“I will tell you,” said the old man, “of the 
most wonderful ball game the world ever saw. 
It happened long ago when the animals ruled 
the land and there were no people on the 
earth.” 


89 


THE ANIMALS AND THE BIRDS PLAY BALL 

Once the animals dared the birds to play 
a game of ball with them. The birds chose the 
eagle for their captain, and the animals chose 
the bear. 

They all talked at the same time, trying to 
make their plans. When should they play? 
Where should they play? “Leave that to the 
eagle and the bear,” said the deer. And all 
agreed. 

At the appointed time the animals met on 
a smooth, grassy plain and the birds in a tree 
top near by. 

Captain Bear was so large and heavy that 
he could pull down anyone who came in his 
way. All along the trail to the ball ground he 
tossed up great logs to show his strength; and 
he bragged of what he would do to the birds 
when the game began. 

The turtle, at that time, was very much 
larger than he is now. His shell was so hard 


90 



that the heaviest blows could not hurt him. 

He, too, was a great brag. Again and 
again he rose on his hind feet and dropped 
heavily to the ground. “Look at me,” he said. 
“See how I will crush any bird that tries to 
take the ball from me.” The swift deer, the 
mountain goat, and the rabbit were at their 
best speed. Indeed, the animals had a fine 
team. 

The eagle gathered his forces together. 
There was the hawk, strong and swift, and the 
wild geese that can fly without resting. The 


91 


black martin was there and the crow, with a 
host of other birds. The blue jay was chosen 
to scream in the ears of the animal players, 
and the humming bird to fly in their eyes. 

The birds looked at the great animals on 
the fleld below, and were afraid. Just then 
two little things hardly larger than fleld mice 
climbed the tree where sat the bird captain. 

They begged to join the game. 

“You have four feet; why do you not go to 
the animals, where you belong?” asked the 
eagle. 

“We did,” said the little things, “but they 
drove us off because we are so small.” 

“Let them play, let them play,” called out 
the birds in pity. 

But how could they join the birds when 
they had no wings? The eagle and the hawk 
consulted, and it was decided to make wings 
for the little fellows. What could they And 
for wings? 

At last someone remembered the drum 


92 


they used in their dances. The head was made 
of ground-hog skin. So they took the drum- 
head, cut two wings, and made the bat. 

Then they threw the ball to him. The bat 
dodged and circled about, keeping the ball 
always in the air; and the birds soon saw that 
he would be one of their best men. 

The other little animal came for wings, but 
there was no more leather. What could be 
done ? Two birds thought they might enable 
him to fly by stretching his skin. Thus was 
the flying squirrel made. 

To try him, the bird captain threw up the 
ball. The flying squirrel sprang off the limb 
after it, caught it in his teeth, and carried it 
to another tree below. 

All were now ready. The signal was given 
and the game began. At the first toss the 
flying squirrel caught the ball and carried it 
up a tree. He threw it to the birds, who kept 
it in the air for some time, until it dropped. 

The bear rushed to get it, but the martin 


93 


darted after it and threw it to the bat. By 
dodging and doubling, the bat kept it out of 
the way of the swift deer. And now the game 
was close. The great deer could not turn as 
quickly as the bat, and so he lost the game. 
The little bat threw the ball between the posts 
and won the victory for the birds. 

And the bear and the turtle, who had done 
the most bragging, did not have a chance even 
to touch the ball. 

For saving the ball when it dropped, the 
martin was given a gourd to build his nest in. 
And he still has it, for you can often see a 
gourd on a post near the Indian lodges. 


94 


GATHERING WILD RICE 

“Have you seen the beautiful new canoe 
father has just finished'?” asked White Cloud. 

“Seen it! I helped make it,” answered 
Swift Elk. “I cut nearly all the birch bark.” 

“Your father has it ready for the wild- 
rice harvest,” said Good Bird. “To-day I go 
to tie the stalks. You are to help me. White 
Cloud.” 

Nothing could have pleased the little girl 
better. All summer she had hoped for this 
great pleasure. Prom a low hill near her home 
she had watched the growth of the rice. 

When the June berries were ripe, the first 
shoots came up near the shore of the lake. In 
a few weeks the rice beds looked like beauti- 
ful green islands in the water. 

And when the yellow-green blossoms 
opened, she coaxed her father to take her in 
his canoe to the rice plants. She picked the 
fiowers, shaded with reddish purple, and she 


95 


saw the spreading mass of blossoms, their 
straw-colored anthers moving with every 
breeze. 

Swift Elk was very proud of the new canoe. 
He had made the paddles, and had cut the 
forked sticks that would be needed to force 
the boat through the shallow water. 

“When the rice is ripe, I ’ll go with you and 
manage the boat,” he said to his mother. 
“When you come home to-night. White Cloud, 
bring some green rice to parch for supper.” 

“I ’ll have some all ready for you,” prom- 
ised his sister. “You shoot a deer to-day, and 
to-night we ’ll have a feast. We ’ll ask grand- 
father, and perhaps he ’ll tell us a story.” 

Soon Good Bird was paddling rapidly 
toward the rice beds. It was a beautiful morn- 
ing, and White Cloud was as happy as any 
little girl could ever be. 

For many weeks she had helped her mother 
prepare the string for tying the rice stalks. 
It was cut from the inner hark of the basswood 


96 

tree. The narrow bands were wound in a ball 
so large that the child could hardly reach 
around it. 

“Why do you tie the wild rice stalks, 
Mother?” she asked. 

“So that our little brothers, the birds, can 
not eat all our grain,” answered Good Bird. 
“All the bunches we have tied are our own, 
and will be more easily harvested. No friendly 
Indian ever touches the heads of rice bound 
together by another.” 

With a curved stick Good Bird pulled a 
mass of stalks within her reach and bound the 
heads firmly together with the narrow strips 
of bark. For hours she worked, forcing her 
way through the thick mass of water plants 
and tying the stalks on both sides of the canoe. 

“May I come here again with you when the 
wild rice is ripe?” asked White Cloud. 

“It will take two strong women to gather 
the harvest, my child; but the canoe is very 
long and I think you can help.” 


“How is it done, Mother"?” asked the child. 

“Swift Elk will sit at one end of the canoe 
and paddle. Nokomis will bend the stalks 
over the boat and untie the long pieces of bark, 
and I shall beat the heads with a stick. The 
grain will fall until the boat holds as much as 
it is safe to carry.” 

“Are we going to take home any to-day"?” 
asked White Cloud. 

“Oh, yes; when the rice is not quite ripe it 
is just right for parching. As soon as my rows 


98 


are all tied, you shall help me gather the 
greenish kernels.” 

Good Bird worked until she had used all 
her string. The long rows of heads, neatly 
tied, looked very fine. 

New plants were found, and the stalks 
beaten with a stick. The rice fell into the 
canoe, and White Cloud found it was good to 
eat even without cooking. By sunset the bot- 
tom of the canoe was covered with grain, and 
they started home across the quiet lake. 

“May we have maple sugar with our rice 
to-night. Mother*?” 

“There is very little left, my daughter. 
I think we would better save it for winter.” 

“When are we going to the sugar trees to 
make more*?” 

“After the winter is nearly over and the 
first crow comes to tell us that the sap is fiow- 
ing. Then we will move to our sugar lodge 
and stay for a whole moon.” 

“May I take care of a kettle and boil sugar 


99 


next time we go to the lodge*?” asked White 
Cloud. “By that time I can count eight 
winters.” 

“You may if you will cut birch bark and 
make your own sap dishes. You will need a 
great many.” 

“Why can’t we eat the sugar we have, 
Mother? What is the use of saving it?” 

“There may he little food on the cold, 
snowy days that are coming. We shall need 
the sugar more then than we do now. Have 
you forgotten the story of the ant and the 
katydid?” 

“Tell it again. Tell it now before we get 
home. Mother.” 

“I think there is time, as it is a short story,” 
said Good Bird. And White Cloud listened 
to the tale of the lazy katydid and the hard- 
working ant while the canoe moved slowly 
across the quiet lake. 


100 


THE ANT AND THE KATYDID 

The oldest ant was building an under- 
ground home. Through the long summer days 
she worked, carrying out a grain of sand at a 
time. Then she filled her storehouse with food 
for the winter. 

Her work was finished just as the frost 
came to mow down the growing plants. All 
summer the katydid called from the trees, 
and the locust danced and buzzed in the sun- 
shine. 

When winter came, the oldest ant was 
warm and comfortable and she had enough 
food for her daily needs. 

But the locust and the katydid were cold 
and hungry. “Why should we freeze?” 
chirped the katydid. “The ant has a warm 
house.” “And why should we be hungry?” 
said the locust. “The ant has plenty of food.” 
So together they went to the home of the 
oldest ant. 


101 


“Let us in, let us in, kind ant,” they cried. 
“We are cold and hungry.” 

“What did you do through the warm 
weather?” asked the oldest ant. 

“We played in the sunshine. We chirped 
and buzzed and sang.” 

“Did you build no lodge? Could you not 
store food for the time of frost and storm?” 

“We had no need to work when the sum- 
mer was here with its warmth and beauty. 
We danced away the happy hours.” 

“Go dance away the winter, then,” said the 
oldest ant. “I worked hard through all the 
long summer days, and I had no time to dance 
or sing.” 

The locust and the katydid turned away 
shivering. “It is not fair,” they said, “that the 
ant has plenty and we have nothing. She 
should be forced to let us in.” 


102 


HOW WILD EICE WAS DISCOVERED 

When Good Bird and White Cloud 
reached home, they found great rejoicing. 
Swift Elk had shot his first deer, and the 
meat was already roasting by an outdoor fire. 

The hunters had found game in abun- 
dance that day, and many feasts were already 
called in the village. 

Swift Elk had chosen to invite only his 
grandparents, and they were already listen- 
ing to his story of the hunt. 

White Cloud made haste to parch the 
rice, and soon a very hungry family was en- 
joying the fresh and abundant food. 

After the supper the children asked their 
grandfather to tell them stories about wild 
rice. 

The old man remembered more than one 
fierce battle for the possession of the rice 
fields. Many years had passed since the peace 
pipe was last smoked, and the children had 


103 


lived without being in constant fear of war. 

“My grandchildren,” he said, “I will tell 
you how rice came to he used in the earliest 
times. There are many stories about Mana- 
bush, and you have heard how he wrestled 
with Mondamin and obtained the gift of 
corn. 

“In his early youth Manabush lived with 
his grandmother, who taught him his duty to 
his people. 

“One day she said to him: ‘My grandson, 
you are old enough to prove yourself a man. 
Before you can become a great warrior you 
must show that you are able to endure many 
hardships without complaint. 

“ ‘Set forth on a long journey alone and 
without food. Travel through unknown for- 
ests, enduring hunger and thirst. Sleep on 
the cold ground, and pray for a vision that 
shall be your guide through life.’ 

“Manabush took his bow and arrows and 
went out into the forest. He fasted many 


104 


days until he became weak and faint from 
hunger. 

“In his wanderings he drew near the shore 
of a lake. Great beds of wild rice filled half its 
waters, but Manahush did not know that the 
seeds were good to eat. 

“As he walked along within reach of the 
growing plants, he heard a soft voice say, 
‘Sometimes they eat us.’ 

“ ‘Who is speaking?’ he asked. All the 
bushes that grew so thickly in the water 
seemed full of whispers. He looked about and 
saw birds of many kinds feeding on the tall 
grass-like plants. 

“So he picked some of the grain and ate 
it. ‘Oh, but you are good! What do they 
call you?’ he asked. 

“Again the rustling whispers in the tall 
grass seemed to say, ‘Wild rice. They call us 
wild rice!’ 

“Manahush waded out into the water and 
beat the grain from the heads. So his fast was 


105 


broken by the new food given in answer to his 
prayers in the forest. 

“And since that time, my children, the wild 
rice feeds thousands of our people every year. 
It grows without planting in the lakes and 
rivers of our forest land. 

“Another story tells us that Manabush 
returned one day from a long hunt without 
game. The fire in front of his lodge was still 
burning, and a duck was sitting on the kettle 
eating boiled rice. 

“Manabush tasted the new food and found 
it good. He followed the bird to a lake not far 
away where wild rice had grown and ripened. 
Afterwards boiled rice became a common food 
among his tribe.” 


106 


MOVING THE DOLLS’ CAMP 

White Cloud ran out of her wigwam home. 
Her work was done, and a happy time of play 
was before her. 

She hurried through the tall grass toward 
a near-by lodge, calling: “Flying Squirrel, 
come and play with me.” 

The skin curtain hanging over the lodge 
door was raised and a little head appeared. 
But there was no squirrel to be seen, only 
an Indian girl with the blackest of hair and 
eyes. 

Her playmates had given her the name of 
Plying Squirrel because she was always 
climbing trees and jumping from one branch 
to another. 

“Bring your dolls,” said White Cloud. 
“We ’ll build lodges for them. Come as soon 
as you can, for my baby is trying to get away.” 

“Your baby! What do you mean? Where 
did you find a baby?” 


107 


White Cloud was rejoicing in a family of 
young puppies — new playthings for her. She 
had bound one of them to a board, and had tied 
the board cradle to her back, as a squaw car- 
ries a papoose. 

“Be still! Be still, bad baby!” she cried to 
her squirming pet. But the little dog would 
not be still. He howled louder and louder, 
and struggled so hard that he broke away 
from his cords and bands. 

“Bad baby ! Bad baby !” said White Cloud. 
“Next time I ’ll tie you tighter!” 

Flying Squirrel brought out an armful of 
dolls, and the children went to the bushes to 
cut long straight sticks. They soon found 
enough poles for their dolls’ wigwams. Each 
child set up her sticks in a circle, bringing 
them together at the top. 

“Now we ’ll hunt birch bark,” said Flying 
Squirrel. “My father has made me a new 
knife.” 

Soon the small lodges were covered with 


108 


long strips of bark and the floors sprinkled 
with cedar twigs. 

“I wish we had skin covers for our dolls’ 
wigwams,” said White Cloud. 

Flying Squirrel looked at the even strips 
of bark that were well placed around her 
frame of slender poles. “Lots of people 
have bark covers,” she replied. “My father 
has seen whole villages of bark-covered 
lodges.” 

“When the peace pipe was smoked over 
west, my father was there,” said White Cloud. 
“Now we can get big skins in trade, and some- 
time we ’ll have ponies. Have you ever seen 
a pony. Flying Squirrel?” 

“No; but my father saw white men when 
he went north in the moon of snow to trade 
furs. He- says the tribes west will come and 
fight us again for our rice beds. Let ’s play a 
war is coming and move our camp. Where 
are your dolls. White Cloud?” 

“I couldn’t bring them, for I had my 


109 


puppy baby. You have dolls enough for both 
of us.” 

Flying Squirrel gave her playmate two of 
the queerest-looking dolls you ever saw. They 
were rolls of deerskin with faces painted in 
black on the ends. 

The children tied the smaller dolls in board 
cradles, hung them to the lodge poles, and 
sang lullabies. 

Good Bird had packed a basket of food for 
her little daughter. Dried meat, berries, 
parched rice, and corn made a fine feast. All 
were invited, even the puppy, and the largest 
dolls were honored guests. 

“I wish I had my new beaded bag to show 
you,” said White Cloud. “I shall put my 
doll’s best clothes in it and hang it over 
her bed. Are you learning to sew. Flying 
Squirrel?” 

“I don’t like to sew. I would rather climb 
trees. It ’s time to move now. Let ’s get 
ready. We will go to the stream that flows 


110 


into the lake.” And Flying Squirrel began to 
whistle for her dogs. 

“My big dog is home with the rest of her 
puppies. May I have one of yours?” asked 
White Cloud. “Last moon my father visited 
a friendly camp. There were thirty lodges 
and more dogs than he could count. I wish he 
had brought me another big one.” 

White Cloud did not say “thirty,” for she 
knew no word for so large a number. She 
raised her ten fingers three times, just as she 
had seen her father do. 

Flying Squirrel called her dogs, and they 
came running to her. She had begun to train 
them to draw loads, and they stood quite still 
while the girls harnessed them for moving. 
The bark covers of the two lodges were taken 
off and carefully rolled. Then the lodge 
poles were corded in two long straight 
bundles. Flying Squirrel crossed the small 
ends and fastened them above the dog’s back. 
The large ends dragged on the ground. 


Ill 



Back of the dog the sticks were held in 
place by two cross pieces of wood carefully 
tied a little way apart. Between the cross 
pieces was a strong netting that hung down 
like a shallow bag. The dolls and rolls of bark 
were laid in one of the nets. What should the 
other dog carry*? 

“I know,” exclaimed White Cloud. “My 
puppy shall have a ride.” He was caught and 
fir ml y tied. The net was a comfortable bed, 
and he made no objection. 

Soon the camp was packed, and the chil- 


112 


dren started. The dogs trotted along quietly, 
and everything went well for a time. As they 
came near the little stream where they wished 
to set their camp, a rabbit ran across the trail. 
Away went the dogs. 

The rabbit leaped over the narrow stream. 
One of the dogs plunged after him, and out 
went the dolls and bark into the water. 

The other dog shook hunself free from his 
harness. The lodge poles he was dragging 
turned upside down, holding the howling 
puppy in the mud. 

“Oh, my puppy will drown!” cried White 
Cloud as she dashed down the muddy banks 
in rescue. 

“My dolls! My best dolls are spoiled!” 
mourned Flying Squirrel. 

Soon the dogs were called back, everything 
found, the dolls bathed and laid out to dry. 
Then the lodges were set up, and the children 
rested in the sun. 

As they looked about. White Cloud saw a 


113 


feather lying on the grass. It was painted, 
as if it had fallen from a warrior’s bonnet. 

“You had better take that feather to your 
father now,” said Elying Squirrel. “Perhaps 
there is going to be a war, and a spy has passed 
this way. I am afraid. I shall pack all my 
things and go home with my dogs. 

“Here, put this leaf around it and run to 
your mother. She will know what to do.” 

Away ran White Cloud, holding a sprawl- 
ing puppy in her arms and trying to protect 
the feather, which she had concealed in a 
large leaf. 


114 


FINDING A WAE FEATHER 

“Look, Mother; look at the big feather 
I have found. It is not like the ones in my 
father’s war bonnet.” 

Good Bird took the feather and examined 
it carefully. 

“Where did you find it, White Cloud?” she 
asked. 

“Near the little stream that runs into the 
lake. Flying Squirrel and I have moved our 
dolls’ lodges this morning.” 

“You must take the feather to your father 
at once. It may be that some enemy is plan- 
ning war and getting ready to surprise our 
camp. 

“Then you must move your dolls and their 
lodge near by where I can see you play. You 
may be in danger. 

“Your father is spearing fish in the lake. 
Now run to him. Let no one see the feather, 
and do not turn aside to talk to any one like 


115 

the little hare that did not mind its mother.” 

“When will you tell me the story of the 
hare?” asked White Cloud. 

“Do not talk about stories now. Run along. 
You must not wait a minute. I will watch you 
all the way. Your father, I think, will come 
back with you.” 

White Cloud soon found her father. He 
left his fishing and returned with his little 
daughter. 

A council of the tribe was called, for the 
strange feather had been dropped by no 
friendly Indian. 

Then the medicine drum was beaten to call 
the people together. They were told of the 
danger, and there was a great stir in the vil- 
lage. Everything was made ready for sudden 
moving in case of attack. All the trained dogs 
were called and tied in the wigwams of their 
owners. 

A guard of young Indians was placed on 
watch for the night. Fleet Deer came late 


116 


to his lodge, and after eating he joined the 
warriors. 

As nothing more could be done, Good Bird 
comforted her frightened little daughter by 
stories. Swift Elk pretended to be very 
brave. He did not run out of the wigwam as 
usual, but lay on the ground and listened to 
his mother. 

“Now, my daughter,” she said, “I’ll tell 
you the story you asked for this morning.” 


117 


THE LYNX AND THE HAKE 

Once a little hare asked her mother if she 
might play on the big rock near the lodge. 

“Yes, little one, but you must not leave 
the rock. And be sure that you do not speak . 
to any stranger who passes by,” replied her 
mother. 

Now the rock was low near the lodge, but 
very high on the other side, where it over- 
looked a stream. 

A hungry lynx saw the little hare jumping 
on the high rock. “I must have that hare for 
my dinner,” he said. So he spoke in a kind 
voice. “Wabose, Wabose. Come here, my 
little white one.” 

The hare went to the edge of the rock and 
looked down. 

“Come here, pretty Wabose. I want to 
talk with you,” said the lynx in a coaxing 
voice. 

“Oh, no,” said the hare. “I am afraid of 


118 


you. My mother told me not to talk to 
strangers.” 

“You are very pretty, and you are a good, 
obedient child. But I am not a stranger. 
I am a relative of yours. Go down the rock 
and come to the stream where I can see you 
better. I want to send some word to your 
lodge. Come down and see me, you pretty 
little hare.” 

The hare was pleased to be praised and 
called pretty. When she heard that the lynx 
was a relative, she forgot to obey her mother. 

She jumped down from the rock where she 
stood and trotted to the stream. There the 
lynx pounced upon her and tore her to pieces. 

“Don’t you know any war stories'?” asked 
Swift Elk. 

“Yes; I heard one in the moon of snow that 
you will like,” answered his mother. 


119 


HOW THE ANIMALS SAVED THE TRIBE 

Once there was an Indian village in great 
danger. The trail of the enemy had been 
found on every side of the camp. 

The women were making ready for flight. - 
They had harnessed their dogs to the drag- 
ging poles. The rawhide netting between the 
braces that held the poles in place was packed 
with household goods. 

An attack was expected in the early morn- 
ing. Guards were stationed to call the men 
to battle, and to tell the women which way to 
flee with their children. 

The warriors all were ready. Their chief 
went out alone under the stars, and prayed 
that he might be able to save his people from 
death. 

Suddenly a deer with branching horns 
stood before him. “I have come to tell you 
that your prayers are heard,” he said. 

“We, the animals, invite you to our coun- 


120 



cil. We shall give you the power to save your 
tribe.” 

They traveled on together until they came 
to a cave under a rocky bluff near the river. 
Here the warrior chief was welcomed and 
given the seat of honor. 

Every animal of field and forest, and every 
bird of the air, had gathered in the immense 
cavern. There was silence for a moment. 
Then a great eagle flapped his wings. He 
stood on a jutting rock in sight of all. 

“Your acts of kindness, oh, warrior, are 


121 


known to us,” said the eagle. “You have 
hunted only for food, as the animals hunt. 
Your arrows have not been shot to take life 
without a reason. No bird nor beast has been 
left by you to suffer and die. 

“Therefore, I, the eagle, king of birds, give ’ 
you of my courage. Y ou shall fear no warlike 
band, however many. Alone you shall con- 
quer the enemy.” 

“And I,” said the bear, “give you of my gift 
of healing. You shall be able to cure yourself, 
and also your fellow warriors, of any wounds 
you may receive in battle.” 

“My fleetness is yours,” said the deer. 
“You shall outstrip all others and run like the 
wind.” 

The wolf stretched himself and walked 
noiselessly into the circle. “When you creep 
into the enemy’s camp,” he said, “no eye shall 
be able to see you. Thus may you rout your 
enemies, and no one shall know who is strik- 
ing the blows.” 


122 


“I am small,” said the field mouse; “I leave 
no tracks on the grass, and send no sound into 
the air. I give you my power, that none may 
follow your trail nor hear your footfall.” 

“No one can give a better gift than I,” said 
the owl. “You shall see in the dark as I do. 
The night shall be to you like the day.” 

“You have fed me,” said the dog. “You 
have taken me into your lodge and let me lie 
by the warm fire. I give you in return my 
power of smell that you may follow the trail 
of your enemy.” 

Suddenly there was no cave in sight, no 
animals in council. Where he had been pray- 
ing under the open sky, the warrior chief stood 
alone. Was it all a dream? 

From the grass came a faint strange smell. 
He followed it fast as the fieetest deer. In 
what seemed but a moment he was in sight 
of the sleeping foe. 

He entered their camp as silently as the 
field mouse. Like the eagle he had no fear. 


123 


He struck out with his weapons. In great 
surprise the painted Indians awoke and 
jumped to their feet. 

Wounded men fell under blows that could 
not be seen nor heard. Their chief lay still 
upon the ground. 

“There is magic here,” they cried. “We 
cannot fight against magic.” And they 
aroused their band and fied, leaving every- 
thing behind them. 

Then the victor sped with the fieetness of 
the deer to his own tribe. The men, waiting 
for the battle signal, followed him to the 
deserted camp. They returned laden with 
weapons, the finest of bows and arrows, spears, 
war bonnets, stores of food, and other spoils 
of war. 

Joy spread among the people. In the 
village of wigwams feasting took the place 
of fear. 

“I wish I had been that warrior,” said 
Swift Elk. 


124 


“You may have a chance to be just as brave 
to-morrow,” answered his mother. “I depend 
on you to take your father’s place here if he 
goes into battle.” 

The children could keep awake no longer, 
but Good Bird did not close her eyes. The 
dawn came on, the sun rose, and there was no 
attack. 

For many days and nights the young 
braves took their turn in watching. There 
were no further signs of an enemy, and no one 
ever found out how the strange feather came 
to be dropped near the camp. 


125 


WINTER EVENINGS 

The wind roared in the trees, and the snow 
was falling. But Fleet Deer’s lodge was warm 
and comfortable. Good Bird, his wife, knew 
how to make a lodge, and how to keep it from 
being smoky. 

She had sewed heavy skins together for 
the outside cover of the wigwam. Inside, the 
lower walls were of tanned doeskin, nearly 
white. The cold air passing between the 
lining and the cover ventilated the room and 
carried the smoke out of the smoke hole. 

In the middle of the circular floor was a 
stone-lined Are pit, now filled with glowing 
coals that gave light to the room. 

Warm skins with the fur uppermost cov- 
ered the three long platforms that were used 
for seats in the daytime and for beds at night. 

Good Bird took great pride in her home. 
She kept the floor swept with a cedar broom 
and everything in its place. 


126 



When not busy in preparing food, she 
made clothing and moccasins. She stained 
porcupine quills for trimmings, and made 
necklaces of shells. The teeth of wild animals 
were used for ornaments. 

On this cold winter evening Good Bird 
was dressed in a handsome garment 
trimmed with fringe and colored quills. 
Her moccasins and leggings were also orna- 
mented. 

She had braided her hair neatly, and drawn 
a line of fresh red paint along the parting. 


127 


Her forehead and cheeks were also touched 
with red. 

“Are you going to a dance, Motherl” asked 
White Cloud. 

Good Bird said nothing, hut smiled as 
she thought of the guest who was expected 
and the pleasant surprise in store for her 
children. 

The evening meal was over. Nokomis had 
opened her stores of maple sugar and corn in 
honor of Swift Elk, who had won the game 
of tops that day. 

Whipping his winter top over level snow 
and high drifts alike, he had outdistanced his 
companions by fifty paces. 

White Cloud sat by the fire drying her 
moccasins. She had been out sliding with her 
playmates until the sun left the sky. You 
would have thought their sleds very funny, 
for they were made of the curved rib bones of 
a large deer. 

Swift Elk was studying the strange signs 


128 


and markings on the lining of the wigwam. 
He was never tired of hearing the pictures 
explained, for they showed in order the chief 
events in his father’s life. 

Here was the grizzly bear that Fleet Deer 
had killed single-handed. For this deed of 
bravery he was entitled to wear an eagle’s 
feather. 

Here was the deer that was killed in time 
of famine, after a long and dangerous hunt. 

Other pictures showed Indians in the war 
dance, on the war trail, surprising the foe, re- 
turning with the honors of battle, holding a 
council, and smoking the peace pipe. 

Fleet Deer was master of the Indian art of 
picture writing, and he had, that very day, 
added new paintings to the record. His chil- 
dren had never heard of any other way to read 
or write, and they had never seen a book. 

The flap of skin covering the lodge en- 
trance was raised and a man entered. 

“The story-teller! The story-teller!” 


129 


shouted the children with delight. He was 
given the seat of honor and the best food that 
Good Bird could provide. 

When the guest was warm and his meal 
over, favorite stories were asked for. 

“We ought to hear again of the great gift ' 
of corn to our people,” said Good Bird. 

“New stories, I want new stories. Will 
you tell us some new stories'?” asked White 
Cloud. 

“War stories, I want, and stories of boys,” 
said Swift Elk. 

Then Fleet Deer, the father, spoke: “I 
wish my son to know the tale of the White 
Canoe and how a great warrior honored his 
parents.” 

Nokomis had no request. She was a fine 
story-teller herself and interested in hearing 
everything that might be related. 

Then, to the joy of his hearers, the story- 
teller began. 

First he delighted the children by telling 


130 


of the ground hog that saved his own life by 
teaching a new dance. 

The next tale was about the first animals 
and how they came to live in the forests and 
on the plains. 

After the story-teller had explained how 
sickness came into the world, Fleet Deer 
wanted to he a medicine man and find all the 
plants that cure disease. 

And so they all listened to one tale after 
another until the midnight stars shone over- 
head and the embers grew white where the 
burning logs had sparkled. 

Now you may read for yourselves the 
stories that were told in an Indian lodge on a 
winter evening. 


131 


THE GROUND-HOG DANCE 

Seven wolves once caught a ground hog. 
“Now we ’ll kill you and have something good 
to eat,” they said. 

But the ground hog replied: “When we 
find good food we must rejoice over it, as peo- 
ple do in the green-corn dance. I know you 
mean to kill me, and I can’t help myself, but 
if you want to dance I ’ll sing for you. 

“I will teach you a new dance. I ’ll lean 
up against seven trees in turn, and you will 
dance away, then come back toward me. At 
the last turn you may kill me.” 

The wolves were very hungry, but they 
wanted to learn the new dance, ^o they told 
the ground hog to go ahead. The ground hog 
leaned up against the first tree and began the 
song. 

All the wolves danced away from the trees. 
When the signal was given they danced back 
in line. 


132 



“That ’s fine!” said the ground hog, as he 
went to the second tree and began the second 
song. The wolves danced away, then turned 
at the signal and danced back again. 

“That ’s very fine,” said the ground hog; 
and he went to another tree and started the 
third song. 

The wolves danced their best, and were 
praised by the ground hog. At each song he 
took another tree, and each tree was a little 
nearer to his hole under a stump. 


133 


At the seventh song he said, “Now this is 
the -last dance. When I give the signal you 
will all turn and come after me. The one who 
catches me may have me.” 

So the ground hog began the last song, and 
kept it up until the wolves were ma,ny steps 
away. Just as the signal was given he made a 
jump for his hole. 

The wolves turned and were after him. 
But the ground hog reached his hole and dived 
in. He was scarcely inside when the foremost 
wolf caught him by the tail and pulled so hard 
that it broke off. 

And the ground hog’s tail has been short 
ever since. 


134 


THE LUCKY HUNTER 

Soon after the world was made, a hunter 
lived with his wife and only son near a high 
mountain. No matter when the man went 
into the woods he was sure to come back with 
plenty of meat. And so he went by the name 
of the Lucky Hunter. 

The little boy used to play every day by a 
river not far from the house. One morning 
the old people thought they heard laughing 
and talking in the bushes as if two children 
were playing together. 

When the boy came home at night he was 
asked who had been with him all day. 

“A wild boy comes out of the water,” 
answered the son. “He says he is my elder 
brother.” 

The father and mother wished very much 
to see their son’s companion, but the wild boy 
always ran into the river when he heard them 
coming. 


135 


“This must not go on,” said the father. 

That night the Lucky Hunter said to his 
son: “To-morrow when the wild boy comes to 
play, ask him to wrestle with you. When you 
have your arms around him, you must hold 
him and call us.” 

In this way the wild hoy was caught and 
kept in the house until he was tamed. He was 
full of mischief, and he led the smaller hoy 
into all kinds of trouble. 

One day the wild boy said to his brother: 
“I wonder where our father gets all his game. 
Let ’s follow him and find out.” 

A few days afterward the Lucky Hunter 
took a bow and some feathers in his hand and 
went toward a swamp. After waiting a short 
time, the boys followed. 

The old man cut reeds, fitted the feathers 
to them, and made arrows. 

“What are those things for, I wonder?” 
said the wild boy. 

When the Lucky Hunter had finished his 


136 


arrows, he went on over the low hills and up 
the mountain. 

Keeping out of sight, the boys watched 
him. When he was halfway to the top he 
stopped and lifted a large rock in the side of 
the mountain. 

At once a deer ran out. The Lucky Hunter 
killed it with his first arrow. Then he care- 
fully replaced the heavy stone and pulled a 
strong vine over it to conceal the cracks. 

“Oho,” said the boys. “He keeps the deer 
shut up inside of the mountain. When he 
wants meat he lets one out and kills it with the 
arrows he made in the swamp.” 

They hurried to reach home before their 
father, who had the heavy deer to carry. 

A few days later the boys went to the 
swamp, made arrows, and started up the 
mountain. When they came to the hole, 
they lifted the rock and a deer came run- 
ning out. 

Before they could shoot him another came. 


137 



and. another. The boys could not stop them, 
and they could not shoot them. 

Other animals made a rush for the en- 
trance. There were elk, antelope, raccoons, 
wolves, foxes, panthers, and many others. 
They scattered in all directions and dis- 
appeared in the wilderness. 

Then a great flock of birds came flying out 
of the hole. There were turkeys, geese, ducks, 
quail, eagles, robins, hawks, and owls. 

They darkened the air like a cloud and 


138 


made such a noise with their wings that the 
Lucky Hunter heard them. 

“My bad boys have got into trouble,” he 
cried. “I must go and see what they are 
doing.” 

So he went up the mountain and found the 
two boys standing by the opening. Not an 
animal nor a bird was to be seen. 

Their father was very angry. Without a 
word he went into the cave and kicked off the 
covers of four jars. Out swarmed wasps, hor- 
nets, gnats, flies, mosquitoes, and all manner 
of stinging and biting insects and bugs. 

The boys screamed with pain. They rolled 
over and over on the ground, trying to brush 
off their tormentors. 

Their father looked on until he thought 
they had been punished enough. Then he 
spoke. 

“See what you have done, you rascals. 
Always before you have had enough to eat 
without working for it. Whenever you were 


139 


hungry, all I had to do was to come up here 
and take home anything your mother wanted 
to cook. 

“After this when you want a deer to eat, 
you will have to hunt all over the woods for it, 
and then may not find one. 

“Now you may go and take care of your- 
selves.” 




140 


HOW SICKNESS CAME 

In the old days when the beasts, birds, 
fishes, insects, and plants could talk, they 
lived in peace and friendship with the chil- 
dren of men. 

But, as time went on, the people increased 
in number, and they crowded the animals out 
of their homes. 

This was bad enough, but, to make it 
worse, man invented bows and arrows, spears, 
knives, and hooks, and began to kill the 
animals. 

They were killed for clothing, and they 
were killed for food, and still they were pa- 
tient. But when man began to kill them for 
sport, they determined to unite for common 
safety. 

The bears first met in council with their 
chief. After each in turn had complained of 
the cruel treatment of man, they all declared 
war against him. 


141 


Some of the bears proposed to make weap- 
ons and use them. But the chief said: “It is 
better to trust to the teeth and claws which 
Nature has given us.” 

As no one could think of other plans, their 
chief dismissed the council. The bears re- 
turned to the woods, and have done little harm 
to man ever since. 

The deer next held a council. They de- 
cided that any one who killed a deer without 
asking his pardon should be lame with many 
pains. 

The reptiles and the fish talked the matter 
over. They agreed to punish man by making 
him dream of snakes and of eating raw fish. 

In the last council the birds, rabbits, squir- 
rels, ducks, and the smaller animals came 
together. All complained of stolen nests, 
stones, and arrows. 

The ground squirrel alone said a good word 
for man. This made the others so angry that 
they fell upon the little animal and tore him 


142 


with their claws. You can see the stripes on 
his back even to this day. 

Then all the squirrels that had lost legs or 
tail by arrows, all rabbits running on three 
legs, all birds that had seen their little ones 
die, all wild ducks lamed, and all animals that 
had ever been wounded for sport rose up and 
called for revenge. 

“Let the pains and the trouble that man 
has sent to us and our children be sent to him 
and his children,” they demanded. 

“But how can we do this?” asked the 
others. “We cannot turn man’s weapons 
against him.” 

“Let us send new diseases,” proposed a 
limping fox. 

All rose up with pleasure at this proposal. 
And they commenced to invent diseases so 
fast that they had soon named every kind of 
sickness that you ever heard of. Had they 
thought of many more, no human beings 
would now be alive. 


143 


The grubworm, who had been stepped on 
by man, was so delighted that he fell over 
backwards and has had to wriggle on his back 
ever since. 

But the plants continued friendly to man. 
When they heard what the animals had done, 
they promised to help him and his children 
forever. 

Every tree and plant, even the grass and 
the moss, agreed to furnish a cure for one of 
the diseases sent by the animals. 

Each said in turn: “I shall help man when 
he calls on me in his need.” 

Thus came medicine. And if we only knew 
where to look, we might find among the plants 
a cure for every kind of sickness. 


144 


HOW SPRING CONQUERED WINTER 

Far to the North lives the terrible giant, 
Winter. When he leaves his home, all people 
dread his coming. He whistles, and the 
storms roar about him. Where he steps, 
the ground turns to rock and plants bow their 
heads to the earth. 

All the animals flee before him and hide in 
caves and hollow trees. The children leave 
their happy play and sit shivering by the wig- 
wam Are. 

One day old Winter looked about him. He 
saw no life in fleld or forest. The wind raged, 
and the drifts almost hid the lodges of the 
Indians. 

“The world is conquered; I am the only 
king,” said giant Winter. He sat alone in his 
lodge. The Are was white with ashes, and the 
tempest howled. 

A step was heard, and a young warrior 
entered the lodge. 


145 


He was tall and straight and youthful. 

Old Winter welcomed the stranger. “Sit 
here on the mat beside me,” he said. “Let us 
pass the night together. You shall tell me of 
your strange adventures, and of the lands in 
which you have traveled.” 

The old man drew his long peace pipe from 
its pouch. It was made of red sandstone, and 
its stem was a smooth reed. He lighted the 
pipe from the dying embers and passed it to 
his guest. 

Long they talked and smoked together, 
each boasting of his power. 

“When I blow my breath about me,” said 
old Winter, “rivers stop their flowing, and 
water turns to stone.” 

The young man smiled. “When I blow 
my breath about me,” he replied, “I free your 
prisoned waters, and they rush onward to 
the seas.” 

“My power is greater than yours,” boasted 
Winter. “I have only to shake my long hair 


146 



and the leaves die on the branches. Plants 
bow their heads before me and go back into 
the earth.” 

And now the stranger laughed as he 
boasted of greater power. “When I shake 
my curling locks, I call the leaves back on 
the branches. The plants come out of the 
brown earth and bring forth their flowers 
and fruit.” 

Old Winter frowned. “I speak, and the 
birds fly away. I command, and the wild 
beasts obey me. They hide in caves. They 


147 


burrow in the earth. They do not venture to 
look upon my face!” 

“I call back the birds you have sent away,” 
replied the stranger. “They hear my voice 
and return to their nesting places. I speak, 
and the beasts leave their shelters and fill the 
forests and the plains with life.” 

“I am the king,” shouted Winter, “for even 
man obeys me. When I send the tempest, the 
mightiest warriors turn and flee. They close 
the doors of their lodges, and I imprison them 
with drifts of snow.” 

“I also have power over man,” replied the 
stranger. “My name is Spring. I melt your 
snow and open the wigwam doors. All men 
rejoice, and they come forth to hunt and feast 
and dance.” 

The night waned, and the sun came from 
his lodge like a painted warrior. The air grew 
warm and pleasant, and the bluebird and the 
robin sang on the lodge poles. 

But the giant! What was taking place? 


148 


He was growing smaller. Now he was no 
larger than a common man. His war bonnet 
was no longer white, but old and gray, and its 
feathers were falling one by one. 

Still the giant dwindled. Smaller and 
smaller he grew. Tears flowed from his eyes. 
He vanished from sight, and fled away with a 
noise like the rush of waters. Far to the north 
he flew where the snow never melts. 

Thus did Spring, the beautiful youth, con- 
quer the great and mighty Winter. 

“Thus it was that in the Northland 
Came the Spring with all its splendor, 

All its birds and all its blossoms, 

All its flowers and leaves and grasses.” 


149 


THE GIFT OF CORN 

A tribe of Indians once lived on the beau- 
tiful islands of a large lake. They were driven 
from their homes by hostile tribes. Men, 
women, and children left everything they 
owned and paddled their canoes westward to 
the mainland. 

But Manabush, the bravest of the warriors, 
remained behind. It was his purpose to keep 
close watch of the enemy, and to send warning 
in time to prevent surprise. 

Every day he paddled his birch canoe close 
to the shore, hiding in nooks and bays. He 
had with him two boys, and with their aid the 
canoe was hauled every night into the thick 
woods. 

As they walked, they carefully covered 
their footprints with sand. 

Each day Manabush thought of his suffer- 
ing people, whose supplies of food had been 
stolen by the enemy. The brave warrior 


150 


prayed to the spirits of earth and air, asking 
that food be given to his tribe. 

One morning Manabush rose early, leav- 
ing the two boys asleep. He went out from 
the tent and walked in the forest, where he 
could not be seen. 

Suddenly he came out upon an open plain. 
Approaching him was a handsome youth 
dressed in garments of green and yellow. In 
his hair he wore a red plume. 

Truly this stranger must come from sky- 
land, he thought. What answer does he 
bring? ‘ 

“I am Mondamin,” said the strange man. 
“Your prayers are heard, for you pray, not 
for yourself, but for your people. I have come 
to show you how by labor and struggle you 
can gain what you have prayed'for. You must 
wrestle with me.” 

Long they strove together. The man of 
the red feather was strong and active, but at 
last he was thrown to the earth. 


151 



“I have thrown you! I have thrown you!” 
shouted Manabush. 

“You have gained a great gift for your 
people,” said Mondamin, “for I am the spirit 
of the corn.” 

Even as he spoke, a wonderful change took 
place. Gone was the man who had wrestled 
with such strength. His garments had turned 
into green and yellow corn husks, and his 
body to a ripe red ear of corn. But the red 
plume was still waving. 


152 


Again the voice of Mondamin was heard 
from the ground. “Take from me my covers. 
Scatter my kernels over the plain. Break my 
spine and throw it all about you. 

“Make the earth soft and light above me. 
Let no bird disturb me, and let no weed share 
my resting place. Watch me till I stand once 
more tall and beautiful. Then you shall have 
food for your people.” 

Manabush obeyed all that the voice had 
commanded. On the way back to his canoe he 
killed a deer, but he said no word to his 
companions of his strange adventure with the 
man of the red feather. 

When the new moon hung like a bow in the 
west, he visited the field alone. What were 
the wide grass-like blades making green the 
plain? What were the vines that sent their 
runners all about? 

Carefully he tilled the field. The stems 
grew strong, and the broad leaves gleamed in 
the sunshine. Still he kept the secret, spend- 


153 


ing many hours in watching for his enemies. 

When summer drew near its close, Mana- 
bush paddled his canoe to the shore nearest 
the wrestling ground. He found the corn clad 
in green and yellow, with red plumes waving. 
And great yellow pumpkins were ripening on 
the green vines. 

As he picked the ripe red ears he heard a 
voice from the field, saying: “Victory has 
crowned your struggles, 0 Manabush. The 
gift of corn is to your people, and will always 
be their food.” 


154 


THE MAGIC CANOE 

One night, as Manabush was lying on 
the ground in the thick woods, he heard 
strange voices. “This is no common enemy,” 
he said to himself. But he lay motionless 
and listened. 

The evil spirits were plotting to take his 
life. By his magic power he was able to de- 
fend himself from their attacks, and they 
slipped away unseen. 

In the morning he went to the open shore. 
There he saw a canoe drawn up on the beach. 
Coming near, he found a man in the bow and 
another in the stern. They had been changed 
into stone images as a punishment for their 
wicked deeds. 

The canoe was the largest and finest that 
Manabush had ever seen. It was full of bags 
of the most beautiful clothing and stores of 
the rarest food. 

Manabush carried all the treasures into 


155 



the wood and concealed them in a cave. Then 
he took the magic canoe and hid it among the 
rocks. 

A voice was heard from one of the stone 
images: “In this way will the canoes of your 
people be loaded when they pass again along 
this coast.” 

Manabush returned to his two young 
companions, bidding them arise and cook. 
He showed them the abundance of meat 
and fish, the bags of maple sugar and dried 



156 


berries, and other foods liked by the Indians. 

Then he thought of his aged father and 
mother, who had fled far from their homes. 
Danger seemed past, and he wished them to 
return and share his gifts. 

Westward he sailed in the magic canoe. 
He needed no paddles, for his wishes guided 
him, and the boat flew through the water with 
amazing speed. 

Before daylight he was at the lodge of his 
parents. He found them asleep, and he car- 
ried them to his canoe so gently that they did 
not awaken. 

When they awoke in the morning, they 
could hardly believe their eyes. They had left 
behind hunger and a barren lodge. They 
found themselves in their own country, with 
abundance all about them. 

Pood was placed before them. Then the 
bags were opened. There were beaded dresses 
for the mother and war bonnets for the father. 
There were moccasins and warm blankets. 


157 


There were skins as soft as the most skilled 
work could produce. 

Manahush built his parents a lodge near 
the cornfield and filled it with every comfort. 
Then he brought ears of corn and pumpkins 
and laid before them. He told them of his 
wrestling with Mondamin, and he showed 
them the field where the corn stood in its 
garments of green and yellow, waving its red 
plumes. 

The secret of the magic canoe, the stone 
images, and the wonderful gifts was shared 
by Manabush with his father and mother. 

When spring returned a large cornfield 
grew and prospered. The exiled tribe came 
back, and from that time they were noted for 
their fine crops of maize. 


158 


THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS 

All who leave the earth must follow the 
death trail. Each walks alone — warrior, 
squaw, or child. All but papoose. The good 
spirits carry papoose. 

The trail goes on and on to the place where 
the sun slips over the edge of the earth plane. 
There it comes to a deep, rapid stream, and the 
only bridge is a slippery pine log. 

On the other side of the river are six 
strange beings with rocks in their hands. 
These rocks are magic stones which can injure 
only those who have done evil, but can never 
touch nor harm the good. 

When the one who follows the death trail 
reaches the middle of the log, he sees the stones 
come flying toward him. 

If his life has been evil, he tries to dodge; 
therefore, he slips off the log and falls into the 
black, swirling water. 

Sometimes he crawls out of the stream and 


159 


climbs to the top of the rocks. But he can 
never reach the country of the good spirits. 

There is only one trail to the Happy Hunt- 
ing Grounds, and that is over the narrow, slip- 
pery log. But if the one who is crossing has 
brought good to his kinsmen and his tribe, 
he does not fear. 

He knows that no harm can come from the 
stones that fly around him, and so he keeps 
his footing and walks safely over. 

The trail winds on over high rocks to the 
beautiful land. No storms and no winter enter 
the Happy Hunting Grounds. The sky is 
always blue, and the grass never grows dry 
with heat nor brown with frost. 

The trees are full of birds, the bushes of 
fruit, and the forests are alive with game. 
Feasting and dancing fill the day, and the war 
cry is heard no more. 


160 


ABOUT THE BOOK 

The facts and stories which have made this little book possible 
are found in the works of Schoolcraft and in the Government 
reports of Ethnology. Especial credit is due to Albert E. Jenks, 
author of ‘ ‘ The Wild-Rice Indians of the Upper Lakes, ’ ’ and to 
James Mooney, who reported for the Government the tribal myths 
told by famous Cherokee story-tellers. 

There is evidence that the Indians of early times had regular 
trade routes across the continent, north and south, and east and 
west. It was the custom of their story-tellers to exchange stories, 
and it is therefore possible that some of the myths told in the 
south found their way in northern wigwams. The story of the 
birds welcoming a papoose, for example, is obtained in part from 
the Cherokee collection, and in part from Schoolcraft, who lived 
among the Ojibways, or Chippewas as they are often called. That 
certain tales are similar to fables of ^Esop is explained by the 
theory that a primitive people, observing nature, would originate 
similar myths. 

The forests where rice grew wild in the shallow water of lakes 
and streams, were coveted lands and the cause of many Indian 
wars. Here game was abundant, and maple sugar, berries, and 
nuts could be obtained in season. 

After years of conflict for the rice lands, peace was made be- 
tween the Ojibways of the Great Lakes and the Sioux, or Da- 
kotahs, farther west. Trade with the whites had begun, but 
there were many villages which the white men had never en- 
tered, and where the primitive customs were still unchanged. 

As Hiawatha was not the only Indian who married a Dakotah, 
it follows that there were homes where the family life was influ- 
enced by the customs of both tribes. 

The author has endeavored to describe child life in the Wild- 
Rice region west of the Great Lakes at this period, and to retell 
some of the most interesting stories enjoyed by Indian children. 

The aim of the book is to gratify the American child ’s natural 
interest in primitive life by stories of our own land and to in- 
crease his respect for all that is original and worthy in the lives 
of the First Americans. 



( 









. I 


1 


% 


• • 1 








